


Hey brother

by IAmNotOneOfThem



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Beware: Angst, James is miserable, James' POV, Lots of drama, M/M, Maybe he dies, Mehehe, Meta, Musing, Oh yes: Beard, Suicidal Thoughts, Traveling, Who reads those anyway, You'll like this, jalec - Freeform, kind of, losttoysintheattic, maybe not, pondering, potential Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 48,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotOneOfThem/pseuds/IAmNotOneOfThem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One last trip. That was all he needed, wanted, and then he wouldn't care about MI6 coming and killing him. In fact, he would welcome whoever it was with open arms, and a bottle of cider. He was done. No more death, no more killing, no more wounds. That was it.</p>
<p>A journey through Europe, Africa and Asia, and an agent who finds out more about himself and those around him he would have thought at the beginning of all of this. At the beginning, there was fire. There was stone. There was Ireland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thepriceswepaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepriceswepaid/gifts).



> This was written as a gift for Monroe (Losttoysintheattic) and has taken me, surprisingly, only a few days to write. It originally contained two endings: One with 00q, one with James/Alec, but only the latter is being published - the former is for Monroe only :P
> 
> I want to thank Jen from consultingwriters for beta-reading this in one day and helping me with "stuff". She knows what I'm talking about.
> 
> There is a document for all the foreign words I used so in case anyone is curious, you can message me. I also have a map of Europe and Asia with his traveling route for people who want to see it. There was a lot of planning behind this, but probably not enough research on certain areas, so if there are some things wrong about the time it takes to go from one country to the other, the cultures or words, I apologise. Apparently, I wrote Malta pretty well :P
> 
> Read the tags for warnings. Let's just say there is angst. And potential death. Oh yes, and sex.
> 
> Monroe's summary: "James contemplates dying."

James didn't know what drew him here. Maybe it was the ancient ruins. The magical aura and energy in the air, almost palpable on his tongue, or maybe it was the green. It reminded him of a home that wasn't his anymore; whatever it was, it was strong enough to manifest in a tug he felt deep in his bones, an instinct he couldn't understand. He honestly didn't want to anyway.

Newgrange lay before him: big, green, the wall of bright stone directly opposite himself.

He dropped the bag from his shoulder and rolled them, a pleasant crack coming from his aching bones. It had been a day or two since he last allowed himself to rest, maybe longer, he couldn't quite remember. It didn't matter anymore anyway, did it?

There were a few papers lying around, probably for information, and even though James wasn't interested in broading his horizons, it wouldn't hurt. When was the last time he allowed himself to stand, read, and take in?

With the air smelling of grass, freshly mown, and the thunderstorm just having passed minutes ago, James felt like he might be breathing for the first time in his life, ever since he joined MI6. Ever since he gave away his name and became James Bond. He took a deep breath, just because, then gripped one of the bright yellow, slightly wet papers from a guide who smiled at him with a bright, gentle smile, her eyes briefly brushing over his chest.

He needed new clothes.

His current ones were completely soaked from the rain he had been caught in, and there were spots of grass and dirt on them because he slept on the ground, just like that, no tent, no house, nothing solid, permanent.

'Newgrange, constructed over 5000 years ago, older than Stonehenge or the Great Pyramid of Giza. Classified as a passage tomb by archaeologists, it is now recognised as much more than just that, as the term Ancient Temple is more fitting. A place of astrological, spiritual and religious importance.'

Behind James, there was a tour guide leading a small group of Asian looking men and women through the mound, pointing out the art written in kerbstones standing around. James knew that he wasn't supposed to be here, not without being part of a guided tour from the Brú na Bóinne Visitor Centre, but no one seemed to mind him wandering around, looking at some monuments, enjoying his time alone.

There was a silence, a soothing quiet, and it reigned here with a power older than time itself.

James had never been one for religion; his parents raised him in a mix of being Christian, and being an Atheist. "God might be there", he remembered them saying, "but we're not the kind of parents to force our beliefs onto our child".

It was almost comical, how people tried to use the words written by some men onto paper. Nothing more, just little pieces of paper, stories gathered together, nothing divine, nothing powerful, and justify their actions by quoting them. The name of God was abused, dragged through dirt and no longer meant what James was raised to know - be aware about, always suspicious, but open to everything.

One could never know, his parents used to say before they died, taken away by some cruel twist. If there was a god, then he was a bloody sadist.

James turned his head, looking at the area surrounding them while he trailed behind the guided tour, men chatting away in Chinese, their IPads raised up high to take pictures. 

The temple lay on a hill, the landscape around them similar to Scotland in a way. There were bloody hills and bloody grass everywhere.

Behind a few trees, there was yet another hill, which was, surprisingly, behind another hill. Green everywhere, a calming, relaxing colour James had always appreciated. Be it in clothes, or in the colour of the couch he bought for his last flat, the one he kept for half a year before it was sold again, the couch included.

In the north, he knew people were crossing the pedestrian bridge built over the river Boyne, just to take a shuttle bus to Newgrange. Just as the Asian group left and began their tour, another bus came to stand, people of different ethnicies and origins pouring forth.

James was glad he could leave, as he didn't like crowds, especially when he didn't have his gun close by.

Even though it was Winter, he didn't freeze, nor shiver; in fact, he felt pretty warm, which seemed to take a few tourists by surprise. They all were huddled into warm scarves, jackets, their ears and hair hidden underneath hats made of wool and earmuffs.

"Excuse me-"

James didn't bother turning his head, just stepped to the side, right behind a couple of stones lying in front of a passage leading down. The man rushed past him, politely trying to pass a few tourists blocking his way, his babbling and constant 'Excuse me' echoing until he was out of view.

James' paper told him that there was a thing called Winter Solstice, which happened at dawn. There still was enough time until then; he turned, examining the stones he had nearly fallen over in his attempt to avoid being run into.

There were signs all over them. Little swirls, like snail shells, twined together like a big organism, everything was connected, a symphony of notes playing together. He spotted a rhombus amongst the swirls, perfectly integrated, bigger ones around it. It was like someone threw a stone into the water, watched the movement, and drew it into the stone.

James reached out carefully, his fingertips brushing over the fine lines which were so small that he almost couldn't feel them, the stone cold under his touch. He drew his hand away slowly and looked around, just in case someone would approach and lecture him for touching ancient stones.

They weren't in a museum, and even then, James never had have much respect for art, or sculptures, not even paintings made by Da Vinci or all the other artists whose name James could't be bothered to remember.

Even though he quite enjoyed scribbling down on paper on his own, enjoyed sketching the things he saw, he hadn't in a while. He saw no reason to when he was there for business.

All his tours, all his journeys, and yet he never took the time to watch, examine, explore, enjoy. He let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his hair, making a mental note to have it cut soon.

Money was no problem, would probably never be. He emptied all his bank accounts, got rid of every flat, every possessing he had and couldn't carry with him in a bag, and left. Just like that. If he wanted, he could buy himself an island far away from civilisation, but even then he knew they could find him; there was always a ship too curious, always people who thought they could just come onto land which wasn't theirs.

"Please don't linger behind, sir," a female voice a few steps ahead said, gesturing to James with wild movements of her arms. She was speaking French with a notable accent, not strong enough to displease or annoy, but it was there, and James could hear it well enough. Mumbling a quick apology, he passed her and joined the group he had seen earlier, realising they believed he was part of the tour.

He didn't really mind, even though the quick, slurred French the guide was using caused an headache.

In France, he could get around; his French wasn't perfect, but it was as close as it could get, a bit worse than his Russian, far behind his German, and the other languages he spoke as if he had been raised with them. Around Native Speakers who thought he was one of them, as much as this sentence made James sigh internally, it was a bit harder to pass, but he managed. They weren't here for small talk, after all, and unlike the Asian group from before, they actually seemed interested in what they saw.

"Newgrange is best known for the illumination of the passage and chamber by the winter solstice sun," the guide said, turning around to face her group again. She repeated the last three words both in English and in French - soleil du solstice d'hiver - just in case one term was known, and the other not.

"There's an opening called the roof-box. It allows the sunlight to come into the chamber on the shortest days of the year, which is around December 21. At dawn-" She looked at her watch, a smile spreading across her features. She was handsome, James thought, watching her quietly, with her long, black hair and her bright, green eyes, but he found himself unable to imagine taking her to bed. The thought alone made him shudder. "-which will be soon, so we better hurry, a narrow beam of light comes through the roof-box, then reaches the floor of the chamber, until it extends to the rear of it. With the sun rising higher, the beam widens until the complete room is illuminated. This lasts for seventeen minutes and usually begins around nine am. It is eight forty at the moment."

A man in front of James raised his hand. The agent had chosen to stand right in front of a wall, even though it meant he couldn't see the guide any more; he felt more comfortable with the wall in his back, where he could watch everyone and be save from an ambush to his unguarded back.

"What was it used for?" The man asked, accent making James wonder where he was from; he sounded foreign, maybe was from one of the francophone islands, like Madagascar. He didn't want to assume, didn't want to guess.

"We believe it was used to tell the time. It's remarkable how it always starts at nine am, especially since it was built a little while ago." She winked, and the tourists chuckled. James just sighed, looking at his watch. "The intent of its builders was to mark the beginning of the new year. It may also have served as a symbol of the victory of life over death, but I wouldn't be too sure on that. After all, we can only guess, there's little left to read from."

With a few gestures, she led the group over to the tomb. She led them through a little corridor made of stone, where there was only a little light bulb spending light at the ceiling. It was cold, smelled of rain, of grass, of mud and dirt, and yet it was the cleanest air James ever tasted.

He inhaled deeply, still following behind the group, the ticking of his clock reminding him that he should not remain there for long.

At one point, someone could notice that it were more tourists in this group than registered, unless someone called in sick and the guide has not been informed of it. At one point, he could be seen, and his picture could be taken - the outcome wouldn't be to his favour.

As they went outside again, clearly heading towards the tomb, the guide's steps fast, almost as if she was in a hurry, James could see the sun rising behind a hill, the sky clear and blue and yellow, a mix James had seen so often before, but had not been affected by yet.

"Hurry please," the guide said and waved them over, then - one by one - they walked downstairs.

James lingered behind, scanning the people around them with a wary eye. He knew the sight must have been visited regularly and attracted a lot of tourists or people, so it would have been easy to-

He stopped himself, forcing the thought away with a force even he was surprised by, and took the steps downstairs.

Whatever he had expected, it was nowhere close to the truth.

The corridor - made from stone, just as everything was here - was big enough for two people to walk next to each other, but in this moment, he found himself being alone. The silence, quiet he had enjoyed so much before returned, washed over him like the gentle caress of a lover, corners of his lips twitching as his shoulders sank down.

A warm, golden light spread out through the whole corridor, colouring the ground he was walking on in a yellow, red, gold and orange, only parts black because of the shadows. The sunlight, illuminating the whole room, shone through a little square hole in the ceiling, so bright that looking at it would hurt everyone who wasn't used to pain.

As it was, James merely blinked.

There was a light at the end of the corridor, probably leading outside again. Fully aware of the irony that a man believed dead walked into the light, he quickly made his way outside and to his bag, going through everything he brought in order to check nothing had been stolen.

The tour wasn't over yet; the guide was standing there, her hands in her jeans, her blouse wrinkled from brushing over it over and over again, the glasses sitting low on her nose nearly threatening to slip off. James tried to imagine her working in a desk job, so far away from the history she seemed to love so much, but couldn't.

A while ago, he wouldn't have known another James than the secret agent who fucked his way through the world, the man whose value lay in his gun, and his ability and determination to risk his life, die, and return from the dead.

It was time for a change.

The tour guide fished her phone out of her pocket and held it to her ear, a fond expression on her face as she whispered "A ghra mo chroi" to the person who picked up.

James paused, looked at her for one last time then picked his bag up and walked away, the sting in his chest reminding him that he still had a heart, despise how often it had been broken already.

Sometimes he wished he could just tear it out and throw it on the ground, but that wouldn't work. Suicide was the coward's way out; not even a broken soldier should consider doing it, and James certainly hadn't, even with dark thoughts keeping him awake at night, demons haunting him, tearing on his shoulder, his head and his sanity. His fingers twitched for a cigarette, one of the few he kept in his bag for emergencies, but this was anything but one; this was just him being weak.

Death had become a friend over the years. James didn't understand what made him so interesting for the Horseman, but he liked to think of them as more than acquaintances, given the number of people he had taken out of James' life because of him.

His parents, Vesper, now-

Throwing the bag firmly on the ground, he pulled an old water bottle out from the inside, tore the lid off and emptied it at once. The harsh, burning taste of alcohol ran down his throat, a welcomed feeling breaking through the numbness he had been in for several months by now.

It wasn't even worth the grieving.

The map he had bought a while ago while planning this trip was wrinkled and dirty already; he didn't pay much attention what he did to it, because as long as he still could see the lines and notes he had written down, it was alright. He crossed out Ireland and then drew a line to Dublin, circling it several times.

He couldn't stay too long in Dublin; even though it wasn't part of the UK, the teamwork between England and - London in general - and Dublin was too strong, meaning he'd be spotted before he could get on his plane and be far enough away to be out of reach. He would never truly be, and he knew that, but part of him hoped that this time, they really thought he was dead, and that he wouldn't return.

He wanted to be alone.

Needed it, actually. The company of the people at Newgrange had been enough for several days; most tended to keep away from him instinctually and automatically, if not at least once they saw the mess he was in.

There was stubble all over his chin and his cheeks. His shirt was messy, soaked in sweat and water from the latest rain, and the jeans he was wearing - they weren't even his - had seen better days. James didn't mind the stubble too much, but the length of his hair kept him restless; it strangely made him feel vulnerable, made him feel weak, exposed to nature, and eventually exposed to death. There was a certain kind of control involved in shaving and in cutting one's hair, a sense he hadn't thought about before like he did now, but there were ten hours of walking ahead of him, he was hungry, exhausted, had not slept in three days, and he was fucking bored.

At least he wasn't on a mission, wasn't on the run.

No one who would want to see him dead could possibly know where he was. James had removed all trackers from his body, even the one so deep down that he had nearly been able to see organs; the new scars on his body, those from his last mission, and those he put on his skin himself, were like thropies, and he wore them like medals of honour.

Grimacing from the pain he felt as he stretched, James shouldered his bag and bound his jacket around his waist, his empty bottle formerly filled with vodka lying somewhere in the grass. By the end of tomorrow, he'd have to be in Dublin, where he would board the plane to go to the Netherlands.

He had been planning this for long enough, sometimes thinking about taking someone along, but this had always been his plan. Once he couldn't do this anymore, he would disappear, travel, and then sit somewhere where they could find, and kill him.

James was under no illusion; once they figured out he hadn't died back in India, they'd track him down, they'd send someone after him and then they would kill him. Shoot him in the head, maybe, or put his head underwater, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he wouldn't fight.

There was nothing left fighting for.

Walking was calming.

In order to walk, one didn't have to think, could shut their brain off and just set one foot in front of the other stubbornly, regardless of the environment, of the people around, the situation they were in. Just one step after the other, in a rhythm one chose on their own.

Walking was quiet, was peaceful. James turned his head to watch the sun rise as he walked, as it made its way up to the top of the sky until the land was covered in light.

There was no reception here, but James had never relied on technology when it came to navigating and finding his way to his destination. In the Navy, they had used the stars and the waves, as technology could fail, technology could be manipulated, and technology wasn't perfect.

Q would have his head for insulting his precious computers and codes, but James trusted the human mind more than he trusted a machine.

James dug his nails into his palm, feeling them penetrate his flesh, felt the rough, calloused skin of hands made to kill, hands used to holding a gun and pulling the trigger. He didn't want to think about anyone from MI6; not Q, not Alec, not Moneypenny and certainly not M.

"That bitch," he muttered inaudibly, out of breath, exhausted and cold, the rain which had started a few minutes ago soaking him to his bones. The air was chilly; the thin jacket he stole from a farmer back in Scotland, the one he also took the car he left at the bridge, didn't keep him warm, didn't offer shelter nor protection from the cold.

Once he was in Dublin, he'd need a new one. A new shirt too, as there were only so many times a shirt could be soaked completely without getting too worn, to destroyed. He didn't know what it was made of, but didn't really care; it had done the job of keeping him warm until now, it didn't anymore, so he had to get rid of it. It was as easy as that.

Stopping for a moment, James put his jacket back on and looked around, taking in the dirty, dark green of the grasses soaked with rain, looked at the mud, the insects flying through the air and the endless hills he had been walking on for a few hours by now. It was better than a desert, for sure, but not ideal; he almost regretted leaving the car he stole behind, especially after putting so much work into stealing the keys.

Once he was in Amsterdam and on his way to Germany, he'd need one, if only for the Autobahn. There were many things he enjoyed about Germany, but the fact that he could drive as fast as he wanted on most roads, except for the _Landstraßen_ where he could only drive up to a hundred km/h, was a wonderful thing. If not the thing he liked the most about the country.

Maybe he should drop by and see Switzerland again. It had been a while. Thirty years, to be exact.

There were three places MI6 would expect him to show up – three places James wanted to avoid for a little while. Skyfall was sold to a family, but they would look there first. Alec's flat in Russia, where he had crashed before, and Venice.

Venice he would see, maybe in a week, maybe later - he had, after all, only died, and wouldn't want to be found already. Alec was amongst those thinking he was dead, he had made sure of it.

He almost felt pity, something close to guilt, at the thought, but it was gone with the first sip of whiskey he forced down his throat in Dublin. The streets were full; only two days to Christmas Eve, one more until it was Christmas, and people were running from shop to shop in hurry. Everyone was trying to find the best gift, the highest discount, the bargain of their life.

Dublin was as dirty as it had been last time James had seen it.

A city attracting those who wanted to get drunk, to party, find someone to take home to and for students, maybe, but it had never been James' favourite destination. There was worse, and it wasn't as bad as certain parts of London, but unlike other agents, James didn't participate in the useless debates on whether London was the best city in the world or not.

All those questions couldn't be answered, the responses were different from individual to individual, and he couldn't be bothered to decide. To him, cities were his bureau. Nothing to enjoy, but business.

To walk through Dublin for the first time without a mission felt different, almost abnormal.

He fit right in, he supposed, with his dirty clothes and his stubble, looked like any other drunken man making his way home from a long night spent in the pub, drinking whiskey - _the 'e' stood for excellence_ \- after whiskey until a glass became a bottle. He passed coloured doors, some green, yellow, purple, red, all made for men to find their home even when they were almost too drunk to walk straight.

Not every cliché fit, James knew, but in Ireland people didn't seem to be bothered by the pictures others created in their minds.

Pictures which, in some sense, held a lot of power. A stereotype or assumption about another person or minority group was made, then those holding the monopoly of power - usually the government, or dictators owning all TV channels in their countries - repeated the story over and over again until it was the only one existing. A fitting example were Mexicans in America, but they were, in James' opinion, a whole different topic and not worth the headache he could feel.

The pub he went in right after arriving was nearly full. It was late in the evening, the scent of cigarettes and alcohol and lying in the air, hitting him hard in the face as he pushed the door open with one hand, a few heads lifting to see who had come in.

Thinking him as one of their own, they went back to chatting. James didn't need to stay long, but he wanted to shower, to have a decent meal and a bed to sleep in.

From his job he was used to spending hours, sometimes even days, wide awake and without a chance to sleep even for an hour or two, but sometimes, rarely, he had someone with him who could keep guard while he rested. Most of the time, when it happened, it was Alec who was with him; M was probably glad to have both of them out of the building, as Q had probably been.

All they seemed to do was piss him off.

James didn't know why, but he could guess, assume, even though he didn't want to. Last time, they destroyed a few weapons and blew up a desk, but it hadn't been their fault - what kind of person would put explosives into a flower and expect no one to be curious about its presence in Q-branch? Q had thrown them out, of course; he seemed to like abusing his power in every way possible, like a young beagle showing off with its new-found voice.

An Irish pub, just like the one he had stumbled into, possessed its own, unique atmosphere. It wasn't just the authentic decor, the food and the drinks one could purchase; James had always appreciated the people there as well. For a hermit like himself, it was easy to go into a corner and be left alone - he even found one where he could have the wall against his back. But the Irish men and women sitting at the tables, on the booths and chairs, they were genuinely pleased, happy and held lively conversations while downing whiskey after whiskey.

He hoped it wasn't one of the many pubs where this many people together always ended in a fight, because even with years of training, fighting and the time he wasted his life for an organisation where he was little more than a gun, expected to work at all times, after three days with no sleep, little food and only alcohol to keep him hydrated even James wouldn't be much of a challenge.

He'd survive, surely, but at what loss?

Slipping past a few men laughing loudly in the centre of the room, James made his way to the bartender, ignoring a drunken man demanding his keys back as he leant in closer. "Are there any cheap hotels with a room for the night close by?"

"Sure. Just turn around the corner, there's one right above another pub. Can't remember the name, but it's hard to miss. They have Christmas decoration up, you'll find it right away."

As much as James wanted to stay inside - it was warm, cosy, the lights giving him a false sense of relaxation and security, and with this many people inside, it would be hard for anyone to take him away and go unnoticed - he needed to shower. He had never been bothered by sweat and other scents, given his years in the Navy and on his tour of duty in countries where there wasn't much running water. It certainly wasn't available in the middle of a war zone, but he had noticed the strange looks he had been given on his way here.

The last thing he wanted was attention.

After he fished out his wallet, James put twenty euros on the counter and pushed it towards the bartender, gave him a nod in thanks and then left. The wind let the hem of his shirt, far too big, he had lost weight, probably on muscle mass; he pulled his jacket together at his front, wishing that it had a zipper, anything to keep it closed. There always was a disadvantage to stealing instead of buying, but this close after 'dying', he hadn't wanted to risk anything.

All he wanted was to go inside, relax, and sleep.

Thankfully, they had a room. It probably helped that James paid right away, plus a lot of money he'd use for alcohol from the fridge he expected to be stocked with cheap beer. Maybe even vodka, or whiskey. He had seen the condition the hotel was in, spotted the concierge smoking behind the building through a window giving view to the little courtyard.

Right next to it, there was another pub. James hadn't awaited anything else.

"Your keys, sir," the woman behind the counter said, and as she reached over, James saw a pair of scars, old, but still visible, underneath her sleeve, hidden away behind a bracelet which slipped up a bit. "If you have any wishes, we're down here all the time."

"Thank you," James murmured quietly, put the keys into his pocket and walked the stairs up. His limp - which had gotten worse because of all the walking he had done since he left Skyfall - made it a painful experience, but once he reached the top and could step inside the room, he hardly felt it anymore. It was little more than a throbbing, some kind of reminder that it existed. With a few pills, sleep and rest, it would stop bothering him.

That was, at least, what he hoped.

"Well," he said, letting his bag drop on the ground with a loud noise echoing from the wall. The room was ridiculously small. He could have afforded something bigger, with more furniture, a bigger bed, maybe a TV or a fridge reaching higher than his knee. It didn't even have anything remotely close or resembling a kitchen; there was a little counter, that was it.

Not even a bottle opener. Fortunately, James had a lighter, and knew enough tricks thanks to Alec, who always had alcohol, but never anything normal, ordinary to open the bottles with. He remembered a mission on the top of a moutain, unable to get down because they had managed to break their legs, and how the only thing they had to drink was a bloody bottle of vodka, and nothing to open it with except for a lighter.

There it was again, he thought, placing the bottle of beer - German, even - down on the ground in front of him. This feeling of guilt, of pain and loss, misery he was trying to run away from, memories he tried to keep locked at the back of his mind. By now, it was like a friend; every time he couldn't feel anything, he did not only feel better, but thought that maybe, for once, it'd stay that way.

It usually never did.

He sat down on the ground - truth be told, his legs gave in, making it impossible for him to stay upright any longer. Reminding him painfully of his failed test after coming back from death the last time, before he had met the new Q, before M had died and been replaced by Mallory. James gripped the bottle firmly, his fingers wrapped around its neck like he was about to snap it. Lighter bottom between his finger and the bottom of the cap, he aimed between his knuckle and finger joint, tightened his grip, wrapped the lighter lever around his finger and held on with some strength.

The cap popped off, easily so. James knew dozens of ways to get things open, be it a bottle, or something less innocent. He had killed less people with a bottle than he had with a vibrator, and the fact alone was almost amusing wouldn't it be annoying to wrap his hand around something people stuck up their lower regions for pleasure.

Pleasure and death always went together, James believed. There was always something grotesque, ugly about sex, the body fluids exchanged, the grunts and moans and words people regretted saying only minutes after their bodies stopped throbbing with need. During sex, it was easy to get the information he needed, and if his former partners happened to die right after they went to bed with him, there always was a logical explanation.

They had a department there for exactly this cause; come up with the most plausible, possible scenarios for the deaths the agents have caused, the explanations for corpses where there shouldn't be any (note: there always was a corpse everywhere, whether it was rotten already, or made into sausage).

Sometimes, James thought that everything he touched died. That everyone coming into contact with him left earlier than they should have. Maybe it was part of the deal he made with death; he couldn't be sure.

Drinking a large gulp straight from the bottle, he walked into the bathroom, doing a quick check of the hygiene. He hadn't used condoms all his life just to catch a deadly illness from pissing and showering inside his booked hotel room. It seemed alright; nothing too fancy, but there were no insects, no hair on the toilet seat, and no corpse hidden behind the shower curtain.

James shrugged his clothes off with little care where they landed, slipped his socks off and reached out to the little bottle of shampoo they put into the sink. Barely enough to get clean everywhere, but after bathing in sand and swallowing most of it in a large cloud, nothing could surprise James anymore. He had survived that, he would survive _this._

The water was either too cold or too warm, and he barely fit inside the cabin, but as he managed to finally wash off all dirt and all dried mud, he felt human again. His skin felt like he had just ripped off a layer; the water quickly turned brown, then red, before he stood in a mess of sludgy, gooey brown. It smelled a bit of the hills around Newgrange, even though he had left them hours ago, and had only been there for two.

Exhausted, James leant against the wall and closed his eyes, running a hand through his wet hair. It fell into his face, several wisps covering his eyes, and, not for the first time, he thought he really needed to cut them a bit.

There was a mirror in the bathroom, but he didn't dare looking inside. Not because he feared what he'd see inside - he knew what he looked like, and it had not changed since he had last dressed up for a gala he had not been invited to officially - but because there was no need to.

He didn't know to look into his own eyes to see he was a broken man.

Turning the shower off again, James blindly reached out to the side where he remembered seeing a pair of scissors used to cut one's nails, his fingers brushing over the metal. For a moment, he thought it was a gun; the shape didn't resemble one at all, but it was cold under his touch, and that was all his brain needed to draw the connection.

James flinched backwards like he had been hit by an invisible force, pushed back with a hand on his chest, which suddenly felt too tight. He took a deep breath, counted to ten in three languages, then picked the scissors up and cut his nails, throwing the metal on the ground once he finished.

What happened afterwards was nothing but a blur.

He couldn't quite remember what happened after he left the shower cabin and took the first towel he could find; he knew he pulled out something from his bag, knew he emptied a bottle of beer and then another, until the effects kicked in and made him stumble on his way to bed.

His high alcohol intake made it nearly impossible to get drunk. It took him several hours of drinking until he could feel the pleasant numbness in his head, could feel the _nothing_ which spread out from his head down his neck, over his shoulders and his arms down into his fingertips. He didn't know what it was like to loose one's dignity when drunk, as he could always remember what he did and when he did it, except for now.

It might be because he hadn't eaten in a while. His stomach empty, and it had been like this for a little while, and his mind felt like it exploded.

He fell down face-first onto the bed, his face buried in the stinking, tiny pillow, still on top of the bed, naked and freezing. He almost couldn't be bothered to pull the blanket over, but as he didn't want to freeze to death, he slipped under them slowly. Not even bothering to turn the lights off, he fell asleep seconds later..

xx  
xx

His plane went in the early morning. 

Going through security control was more exhausting than he remembered it being. During his time at MI6, he had just have to hold his ID up and they'd let him through. Even when he was undercover, MI6 still had managed to make the process as easy and quick as humanly possible.

For the first time in a while, he was on his own, and he didn't quite know what to think of it.

It wasn't the independence leaving him nervous, even though he didn't show it; it wasn't the fact that, should something go wrong, there wouldn't be any backup. Would someone ask him, James wouldn't know what to reply. He was sure it was just his fear of being caught this quickly, spotted on the cameras he could see from the corners of his eyes.

Being in Dublin wasn't the best idea he had, but he had just googled places to see, and it had come up. He had to admit the idea of such  huge temple holding a spectacle like the Winter Solstice standing in Ireland had taken him by surprise; being a double-oh required a wide knowledge of several topics such as politics, music, gambling and so on, but mythology has never been one of James' strongest points.

A conversation of his liking ended in guns being used, silence except for the bullets flying through the air, and loud gasps when they tore through flesh. He shuddered, nodded at the officer checking his ID, and then went to get his bag.

He had thrown out most of the stuff he had brought with him in the beginning, believing there was no use in carrying around nail scissors when he didn't really need them; the three, empty, bottles he filled with alcohol had to be thrown away before boarding, his gun an obstacle in getting around unnoticed, and he didn't trust the scanners when he didn't have Q-branch and their inventions on his side.

Which he, unfortunately, didn't anymore.

For a moment, he wondered if anyone was missing him; if Q, or maybe one of his minions, was sad about him being gone. Did they grieve? James knew what grieve looked like, which twisted forms and shapes it could take until it was nearly not visible anymore. He had gone through it so many times that he probably wouldn't recognise it in himself anymore.

Knowing Q, he hadn't. Knowing Q-branch, they were glad he wasn't there anymore because he couldn't destroy their toys and equipment.

He almost missed those, as he would feel better knowing he had a gun attached to his hip, and some shiny and useful hidden away in his pocket watch. Wrapping his own around his wrist again, he made his way up to the boarding area, passing a few people waiting to be let in.

He had the advantage of belonging to military; he was one of the first people boarding, found his seat before the big rush was let in, and could put his bag above his head. Just like he wanted, he had a seat at the corridor, paranoia, maybe, but he found himself more relaxed now that he knew that, should something happen, he could easily escape.

Twenty minutes later, they were slowly rolling out to the field, a bit later, they were up in the air. Flying had become routine for James years ago, meaning he wasn't even surprised when they encountered problems right above the water. The woman next to James, seated between himself and another man, looked panicked and kept on asking the stewardess questions, questions James could have answered even without knowing this specific kind of machine.

It had an engine, it flew; that was all he needed to know.

Only an hour and forty minutes later, they were landing. James wasted no time; the longer he stayed in the capital of a country, the more likely it was he would be spotted. There were cameras everywhere; those the general public knew about and could see, and those hidden away.

On his way outside the airport and through security, he spotted twenty four trained to the way he was coming through. Only ten of them were visible.

He made his way outside, directly into the city of Amsterdam.

The sun stood high when he found himself a cab. It wasn't too busy, even though there were enough tourists for James to hide amongst. All kinds of languages were spoken, and the cabbie even greeted him in English before realising James spoke Norwegian decent enough. There wasn't much James wanted to say anyway; he needed a bicycle, as cheap as possible, and a map to Zaanse Schans.

Something about his pronunciation seemed to be off, because the cabbie gave a grin and corrected him in amusement, before saying "Right away, sir" in English with a thick accent.

James turned his head and looked outside the window to see the city pass.

The car drove next to big houses made of red-ish, brown stone, not reaching as high as a skyscraper, but he couldn't see their roofs from where he was sitting. Big, white windows were facing the street, new, modern houses standing next to vintage, almost ancient buildings. Some were used for shops, others were owned privately. The lights in a few were turned on while the others seemed dark; curtains were drawn over them to give privacy, in others he could see furniture, bright white couches shining in the sunlight.

There was snow falling down fromthe sky, thick, yet small snowflakes staying put on the street. Sooner or later, the streets would be covered in white, and then the only way to leave the city would be by car, not like he had intended. Perhaps he would find a bike to steal and a helmet. First, however, he wanted to buy a bicycle to get around.

He didn't know what made him want that of all things; he'd understand the wish for a fast car, or a flat, or maybe even one of the bikes which could go up to 200 km/h. But a normal, ordinary bicycle - that was unusual. James didn't want to question it too much, though, and just gave the cabbie some money, 20 euros, and slipped out of the car, making his way to the next shop.

Going around by car seemed to be something the citizens didn't enjoy; there was pollution, of course, but when wanting to get from one place to the other, James preferred a car, at least he usually did, but the current situation was anything but the usual.

There were less explosions, and less corpses covering the path he was heading down.

"Where are you heading to?" The shop owner - a nice, older gentleman with a horrible English - asked James as he handed over a bicycle, a brand new one James paid for with enough money, he even left a tip. "We also sell maps."

"Zaanse Schans," James replied, pointing at a card he could see in the background. "That one, _verzoek_."

"It'll take you two hours, if not more, to get there. Why not a car?"

James faked a smile, pocketed the map and shifted from one foot to the other, feeling the cold from outside sit deep in his bones, like a virus he couldn't get rid of. Without his immune system, James knew he'd be sick already. "I'd like to see the country. _Vaarwel_."

He turned around and pulled his bicycle behind him, out into the street and cold. It was impossible to suppress the shiver running down his spine, the sudden wish for warmer clothes, a flat and some hot chocolate with schnapps in it. There surely were pubs here in Amsterdam, maybe even some selling Irish coffee, but he had been here long enough already. All he needed were clothes, and then he could leave again.

Shouldering his bag, he climbed up onto the seat and pushed forward, quickly getting onto the street.

It was only two days before Christmas Eve, and yet people already seemed to be celebrating. He saw people walk around with red hats on top of their heads, scarves with Christmas symbols knitted into the fabric, everything green, red and golden. He saw Christmas trees inside the living rooms which he could see from the outside, even a menorah standing at the window, lights not lit up as it wasn't dark outside.

" _Prettige Kerstfeest_ ," someone said to James as he passed him, and the agent just grunted, almost disturbed by the people around him, all smiling, all happy, excited.

He wasn't jealous.

Alec once said that he was just jealous of families celebrating together because he couldn't anymore, but that wasn't true; when they were in country, both on English soil, they'd celebrate. They wouldn't give each other any presents - being alive was all they wanted, getting to see the other amongst the living for one year more the best present. 

Alec was all family James had left, and now thought James was dead.

James stopped his bicycle and paused, looking around with a long sigh. The more he thought about what he left behind, the more depressed he felt; there was a darkness inside his chest, burning, hot, yet cold at the same time, leaving him behind aching and feeling like he could just lie down on the ground and let them find him. Because what difference would it make?

He would be dead soon enough. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but he didn't think he'd live to get older. Would he try, he could go unnoticed for several months, years even, but he didn't. Otherwise he wouldn't have taken the plane. One place he wanted to reach, and then... He'd welcome the MI6 agent sent to kill him with a bottle of rum.

Wouldn't it be ironic if they sent Alec?

They talked about the possibility of that happening before, but James didn't know if they would stick to their promises of following orders. Aiming at Alec's head was one thing, but pulling the trigger...

James pushed the thoughts away, far away from his consciousness, back into the dark corner they came from. He decided to make his way to the next clothing shop. There was one just around the corner, not cheap but not as expensive as the suits James used to buy and wear whenever he was outside - buying cheap clothes usually meant there were less problems connected to it, such as signing with his name, having to show his ID, and so on. They had warm clothes, which James was utterly and incredibly thankful for.

He put his bicycle against the wall, then went inside, getting the first things he found and then changed into them. A long-sleeved shirt, a jumper on top of it, new jeans, a jacket. Even a hat, just in case he'd get too cold.

Pulling his wallet out of the bag he carried, he checked his plan - maybe he should stay on Malta for longer, given the usual temperature there, and that it tended to be warmer than in the Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland. He almost regretted not planning on going to Africa.

Alec would laugh at him for speaking like this. James was as British as a person could get, he would claim, and still hated the weather inside his own country. Britain wasn't just rain and wind like people thought it was, but it was a pretty accurate description.

"Excuse me," James said, attracting the attention of two women walking along the shops. They regarded him, giving him a sceptical look-over. "I want to go to Zaanse Schans, what direction do I have to go?"

"Zaanse Schans." One repeated, humming to herself. Her English was clear, if only a bit sharp; she had a lovely voice, James noted as he listened to them talk in Dutch, trying to keep up. "No, I have no idea. Don't you have a map?"

James shook his head. There was a large knife in his bag, right above the map. He had been here long enough already. It was time to leave, especially as he had to get back here to get a car. "Thanks," he said to them, then continued on his way.

Navigating came to him easily. He found a way for bikes and kept a steady, quick pace, only stopping once as he saw a clear river, frozen, almost like a mirror. Brushing off the thin layer of snow above it, he took his knife out, a bottle of shaving cream and a towel. Even though there was no use in shaving, he didn't need to look after his body for the sake of being appealing, he felt more comfortable with a clean-shaven face; wearing a beard wasn't his.

The Dutch landscape wasn't like Ireland's, but he found himself appreciating the view, the scent of fresh, yet cold air, snow, and nature. Once he left Amsterdam and was on his way, he was alone, isolated, on his own, and left the smog of the city behind. It was only himself and his thoughts, and all the cars passing him on his way. While the shop owner who sold him the map told him that it would take him two hours, he made it in one.

He spotted Zaanse Schans from afar.

There was a certain flair about the city, something calming and beautiful. As far as James knew, it was a museum, but there were people living in the old houses. Several mills were located next to each other, their mill-wheels moving almost lazily, little coloured bridges going over the river. All James could see were people walking around, and actors, or inhabitants, showing them everything, but he didn't intend on staying too long. There wasn't much one could see in one little village alone, as interesting as it might be.

Snow was raining down steadily now, and it stopped melting immediately. James left behind footsteps visible amongst the endless white, with spots of green and glimpses of stone shining through it, and saw his own reflection on the frozen lake from the corners of his eyes, but didn't pay much attention to it. Nothing new to see.

His hair still was blonde, his eyes still were blue, and the clothes he wore looked exactly the same they did an hour and a half ago when he bought them. Staring at himself and thinking about his losses, his misery and his pain wouldn't bring him any further.

Underneath all the white, spread on the top of the roofs and houses like icing sugar, there was green and blue. Most houses and mills here were made of wood painted green, the roofs red and in a dark brown. He passed the bridge and blended in with a group of people babbling away happily, just to fall silent once or twice when they seemed to pass a building catching their interest.

James could smell cheese, something wooden, and sweet. His stomach growled; forgetting about his paranoia for a moment, he gladly accepted a piece of cheese from one of the actors dressed in traditional Dutch clothes, his bright smile for once not upsetting or annoying James at all. All he cared about at this moment was that he wouldn't starve.

He passed house after house, sometimes stopped, took a closer look and then kept on walking, switching groups just to return to the first one later, then the second, almost surprised by the sheer amount of people he could see. Most tourists he knew went to the warmer cities and countries around this time of the year, simply because no one really was fond of freezing.

A little child was running around.

James watched him from the corner of his eyes, trying to tell himself he just didn't want him to bump into the boy and get blamed for any injuries, and that his pure, innocent happiness and joy didn't fill James with a sense of _longing_.

He let out a sigh, watching his breath rise in the form of smoke, disappearing up in the clouds, before he kept on walking, away from the big crowd and towards a car parked in the back. Temptation rose, and he stood there, wondering how far he could go until he'd have to switch the license.

In the end, he didn't take the car; he walked back to his bicycle, made his way back to Amsterdam, and only then stole a random car he found on the street.

During his time at MI6, he had done that often enough, so often that it felt like breathing as he picked the lock, pushed the door open and quickly got inside before someone could notice. Even after having been to Europe and other continents often enough, it still took him a moment to realise that the wheel wasn't on the right, as he was used to, but on the left, but once he was inside and put the seatbelt on, he found it familiar again.

He leant down to turn the engine on, the vibration as loud as a purring cat, comforting underneath his buttocks, then drove away, taking out his map at the same time to see where he would have to drive.

He began to plan this whole trip several months ago. He hadn't planned on ever going through with it due to obvious reasons - MI6, M, Alec, the fact it would be considered treason and could end in his death - but by now he didn't care about any of those things, at least not enough to not do this. Alec would understand, maybe even knew already and was trying to track him down.

It had been part of his plan to go all around Europe and then return to England, but not anymore; he'd go to Asia, maybe Africa, he didn't know yet. There were several lines drawn all over his map, all in different colour. He marked down which vehicle he'd need to use, when he had to steal a car, take the plane (on each route, he only had planned on using it once) or go on a boat, and he scribbled down the estimated time it'd take him to get from one country to the next. At one point, he counted Alec in too, but the Russian was more loyal, and Q would never risk his career.

James pulled his car to the right after nearly hitting one from the opposing traffic, put his map away again and tried to spot a parking place with no camera surveillance, and that before reaching Germany. It was close to impossible to find one there, at least in the bigger cities. He didn't count Cuxhaven as one, at least in comparison to London, but before he reached that part of Europe, he wanted to either get rid of the VIN, and get a new plate.

He needed acid, but that was easy to get, with the right connections, which he had.

The motorway to Germany was full with cars, however not as bad as he expected it to be. Workers on their way back to their families, businessmen, trucks with the unfortunate souls having to work around Christmas sitting behind the wheel. They all drove together, the snow not capable of muting the noise coming from the engines. It was a deafening noise, too loud, too many cars, the adrenaline pumping through James' veins before he could even realise that he felt panic.

In a flash, he saw a car in front of him, felt the weight of a gun pressing down in his hand, his arm going up, the window not there anymore, and he-

He barely let the indicator light up before he pulled the wheel to the side hard, leaving the motorway and parking the car in front of the petrol station. Not caring about the glares directed in his direction, he pushed past the queue forming in front of the loo, all the insults and complains ignored by him. He pushed the door open, rushed inside and then bent over the closest toilet to throw up.

Closing his eyes, James threw up, tasting the vomit on his tongue even in the few seconds in between the two waves he had to go through until his stomach was empty, and all that came out was bile. With a cough he pushed himself up again, wiped his mouth on the papers layn out for cleaning hands, flushed and then hurried out again.

He looked the security officer waiting for him in the eye, walked back to the car and drove away again.

The first thing he did once he was on the road again was checking his phone; he bought one from some shop in Ireland, couldn't even remember its name, only knew that it couldn't be traced down to him. To a Deandre Baker, but not to James Bond, not to him, not to his current position, nor his future destinations.

All other plans had been burnt down by the fire which consumed the complete house he rented for his mission, just like his clothes, his equipment, _everything_. Q must still have hated him for that.

With nothing but music playing from the radio - first in Dutch, but then in German after he passed the invisible border between the Netherlands, or _Holland_ how it was called in Germany, and Germany, _Deutschland_ , itself - offering him company, James drove without caring for any traffic laws, only slowed down when he saw a speed camera in the distance, or when there was a police car visible next to the road. The change between the Netherlands and Germany was visible only in the speed the cars drove in; on the three ruts next to each other, the first one was almost empty, except for cars rushing past the others in a sickening speed.

That was what James loved about Germany - he didn't have to waste any time.

Everything was quick, everything a rush, enjoyable, uncomplicated, logical. It was one of the many stereotypes he believed to be true, unlike the addiction to beer, or the clothes they wore on a daily basis. Business with the Germans meant business which didn't go further than planned, no personal dramas drawn into the process, progress not destroyed because of emotional matters. It felt like the Germans were trying too hard to please the SIS after what happened in WWII.

Five hours after starting in Amsterdam, James parked his car in Cuxhaven, a city lying at the North Sea. It had been the first hit coming up after searching for something close to a beach in Germany, and he had been here for business before (it had been a short stopover on his way down to Berlin), therefore held it in good memory. The car he left somewhere on a parking lot, plates switched, all VIN sanded off with acid, his bag on his shoulder again. For this time of the year, it wasn't as cold as he expected, but it was windy, cold, hard wind hitting his face, feeling like cuts made with a knife.

Shaking his head to himself, James pulled the zipper of his jacket up, the hoodie over his head and put his hands into his pockets. It was too cold, especially since the sun slowly disappeared into the water, leaving the city in the shine of golden, yet cold light coming through the clouds, an endless amount of them blocking the sun. It looked like it was about to rain. Several drops fell down on James' nose, the street he was walking down already reflecting the houses built behind the pavement because of the layer of water on the tar.

People searching for shelter passed James, but aside from that, it was relatively calm. He could walk without bumping into someone, didn't have to worry about cars not minding the law and driving over him as he crossed the street, heading straight for a hotel he had seen from the corner of his eyes.

The room wasn't cheap, but that didn't matter; all that did matter was that it had a shower, a fridge stocked with alcohol, and a little restaurant where he could eat. He felt like starving. With the taste of bile still on his tongue, the ugly reminder of his loss of control, he just wanted something to drink and something to eat before he would head down to the beach.

It wasn't the best weather for it, surely, but at least he would be alone. There was a disadvantage to being alone, and yet he thought it was worth the risk if only he could get a moment of peace and isolation.

He hadn't even have time to grieve.

Once he showered and got clean (he shaved yet again, the stubble on his chin seeming like an intruder, something he had to get rid of, something he had to destroy), he went down into the restaurant, past the couples staring at each other with love written in their eyes, the married partners, friends, families, past conversations in English, German, French, all kinds of languages. He sat down on a chair and pulled the menu close, reading over it quickly.

Like he had expected, there was a lot of fish on the menu. Fillet of all kinds of fishes, shrimp salad, salmon with noodles, salmon in champagne - surprisingly, considering this restaurant didn't even have a star.

" _Haben Sie sich schon entschieden?_ " The waiter asked James once he spotted him, hidden away on the table the furthest away from the crowd, directly behind a statue of a lobster, facing everyone with his back against the booth. When James didn't react immediately - he had still been mustering the fish section - he repeated the question in English, then Dutch. "Have you already chosen something?"

James nodded and gave him the menu back, explaining in quick, sharp German that he wanted a fillet of salmon with potato salad and a beer, the brand didn't matter, just make it quick.

One nod, and the waiter left him alone again. In any other restaurant, he would have been expected to smile, but James didn't care, and that seemed to be visible. Still no friendly posture when he brought James' beer, no gesture of hospitality minutes later when his fillet followed. Almost being able to taste the salt, each single ingredient used to make this, James ate it in a matter of seconds. He didn't realise how hungry he had been only when the plate was empty, and his glass still half-full.

German beer was the best of its kind, far behind rum or a good martini, but still enjoyable. In one large gulp James downed it, just before he stood up and put the money down on the table, barely enough to cover his bill, no tip left. The salary of the waiter had to be high enough; otherwise there was no logical explanation why he hadn't searched a better paid profession yet, in one of the hotels attracting crowds of tourists coming to the city. James had never been one of them before, always flying business, not taking a second to walk around, explore, unless he had to memorise the layout.

To walk out of the hotel with nothing on him but his clothes and his knife felt like walking around naked; he had no gun, no shiny gadget to protect him and save his arse when there was no other way out, and he didn't even have a suit on. It would have been ruined by the weather regardless, just like his shoes, but it had become familiar like skin.

Because of the weather - light drizzle, strong wind, and the cold - there were close to no people at the beach. In the distance, he could see a ship, its body blue, the sail white, next to him yellow and white beach chairs looking almost grey in the light. Even though it had started to rain by the time James slipped out of his shoes, the sand still was soft under his naked soles, cold, but he sunk in a bit with each step.

A couple was walking in the distance with their dog, but he couldn't see anyone else close by. Shoes in his hands, he walked towards the water, leaving footprints behind in the sand.

He could smell the salt in the air. The water stretching as far as he could see to the horizon, changing colour depending on the clouds passing over the disappearing sun. Soon, the moon would be up to bring a bit of light into the darkness of the night. At the moment, it was hard to tell the ocean apart from the sky, and it would have been impossible wouldn't it have been for the grey above his head and the blue in front of him.

James stopped in front of the shore and felt the waves wash over his toes, a shiver running down his spine from the cold. Waves were flowing towards him, just to break into foam and creep up to his feet, a constant motion reminding him of a circle - it slid back again, just to come back, his soles wet by the time he decided to sit down in the sand.

It was beautifully silent. He shifted until he was sitting there cross-legged, hands resting in his lap, and let his gaze wander around. The grass blades were rocking back and forth because of the wind as he threw a gaze behind his back, seeing distant lights from houses.

Silence was never a good thing, not when one expected noise as a sign of being alive. There were no memories connected to silence which he liked to re-live; silence meant death, silence meant he had no idea where his enemies were hiding, it meant that he had no idea what lay ahead of him and what the opponent was planning. There could be a bomb, or a grenade ahead; silence never meant anything good. Not in a conversation, not in a love life, and certainly not in James' experience.

But right now, the silence he found himself in was calming. Soothing even. All he heard was the ocean, the waves moving and splashing, some birds above his head flying along the sky.

It might have been the first time James watched the sunset.

If he had consciously watched it before, then he couldn't remember; such information usually didn't last long inside his brain. He was aware that the sun set, knew the night began, but had never wasted a thought about the aura, the mood it put him in only because his eyes were trained on it like they were on a target all the years before. 

Even now that he did watch, he didn't know what he was supposed to feel. He found himself caught in an inner turmoil, caught in a chaos of sadness, anger, grief, fury, hatred, relaxation, even joy somewhere buried deep inside his chest. Lying back until his head was resting on a little hill of sand, James stared up at the sky, felt raindrops fall down his face like tears. He didn't cry. 

Apparently James had fallen asleep, because the next time he opened his eyes, it was dark.

He blinked sleepily and lifted his hands, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he tried to remember what happened. The water, by now, was reaching his knees, his jeans soaked. It was cold, icy even, and he had goose bump all over his arms. It was a wonder - almost a shame - that he had woken up again.

Sitting up slowly, he stretched, feeling his bones crack. "Bloody hell," he mumbled quietly, stood up and put his shoes back on, not even able to feel his toes properly anymore. Time to get back to the hotel. It was too dark to steal a car and drive to Cologne, his next destination, right now, he was too tired, too cold, wanted another shower and then a bed to sleep in.

Almost like Russia, he thought, the corners of his lips twitching up in something close to a smile. In Russia, there at least was decent vodka, so being in Russia right now would be an improovement. He could have showed up at Alec's. Try to make sure he wouldn't be shot just for disappearing, maybe sleep there for a few days before he'd move on.

Unfortunately, he couldn't. They'd expect him there, they'd take him back to MI6, and probably kill him.

Might as well see a bit of the world before.

The woman behind the counter in the hotel looked at him in confusion, took in his wet clothes, the way he shivered and the sand he brought in from underneath his shoes. He took a moment to pity the cleaning staff, just a moment, because his main concern was to get into his bed upstairs, if only to fall into it right away and sleep.

"Everything alright, sir?" She asked and stood up, suddenly appearing flustered. Her gaze brushed over his torso, before meeting James' own. "Have you been outside in the water?"

"I've been at the beach," James replied, rubbed his arm, and then excused himself. He didn't take the elevator upstairs; he ran upstairs, took two steps at a time, nearly lost his keys as he took them out of his pocket in front of the door. The room didn't look any better than it had before, but there were three blankets on top of the mattress, and that seemed like heaven.

He had survived three days on top of a mountain with little water and not a single blanket, but this wasn't a mission, he wasn't alert and didn't wait for his target to show up, and right now, he could feel his age. There were younger agents waiting to take his position - he had done them a favour by dying. M would be pleased too.

Shrugging his jacket off, James went into the bathroom, took the rest of his clothes off and then went to sit into the shower cabin, the water falling down on him like the rain had before. He closed his eyes and leant against the tiles behind him, chest rising and sinking, his bandages – tightly wrapped around his torso – soaked with water. If he learnt one thing from H-branch, then it was that it didn’t matter how old the bandage was as long as there was no blood, and the few dot-like spots he could see on his own didn’t really count. He’d change them once it was necessary, so maybe in a few days, maybe even weeks, he didn’t know, didn’t even care because it didn’t really matter anymore.

There was no one he had to impress. No one who wanted to see him in top form, full of energy and power and in a tuxedo. James felt himself smile; it was a sad, broken smile, but it was there, and he could feel it like an ache in his muscles. It had been a while since he last had smiled, he thought, standing up again to leave the cabin before he ran out of warm water.

This time, he didn’t bother to dress. He just dried himself, took his wet clothes to put them on the heater hidden away in the corner, and then lay on the bed. For a moment, he was tempted to relieve himself; a quick wank, nothing remotely emotional or pleasurable, just to get rid of some tension, but then decided against it.

All he wanted right now was to sleep, so he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep again. It took a while. He  ould hear people outside walk around in the corridors, as it wasn’t that late yet, and they probably had been out or in the restaurant downstairs. A couple was chatting, their Dutch almost too fast for James to understand, which he caught himself trying. Rolling over to his side he put the pillow on his head, slipped underneath the blankets and just let his mind wander.

Door closed, light still on in the corridor, footsteps, possible danger. Could break the door down. Bag is in the bathroom. Under the bed? Nothing of value inside. Several credit cards. One missing, can remove account easily. They’re speaking French. The window is closed too. Second storey...

Slowly, he dozed off. The noises outside from the people walking back to their rooms or out of them to explore the city in the night slurred together until all he could hear was a murmuring in the back of his mind, a pleasant background noise making the silence go away. Because of his body heat the bed became warm, and he stopped freezing after a while, lulled in by the cosiness and relaxation. After a few minutes, he had fallen asleep.

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It was Christmas Eve. Christmas morning, rather, but people didn’t seem to care as they all ran around, decoration up everywhere – stars hanging between the streets, golden and red with some probably intended as additional light in the evening, fake grass with glitter and tinier ones wrapped around street lamps and hanging above the doorframes of shops all around the beach and the main street. Snow must have fallen earlier in the morning, because when James stepped outside, he could see a bit of white underneath his feet, barely enough to be more than icing sugar melting away already.

Even though there were enough cars standing around, and because of the sheer mass of people walking around it would be almost too easy to get one and drive away unnoticed, he walked the way to a car shop and asked for a cheap model he could use to drive down to _Köln_ – Cologne.

The shop sold Peugeot cars mainly, and there was one for two thousand euros, not the best car, but it would do the job. It would take him approximately four hours on the A1 to drive down to Cologne, where he’d have to get in his train down to Toulouse around half past four pm. It was eight am; even with traffic jams going on, he’d be there in time easily.

At first, the shop owner wanted to make James pay more, claiming the car was far better than two thousand euros, but they hadn’t come around replacing the sign yet. Only when James replied to him in German he stuck to the old price, even gave James a little discount as he could pay in cash and that right away. Once paid, he pulled the car around the corner, somewhere no one else could see him right away.

The VIN – Vehicle Identification Number – was in several places in the car. James wasted twenty minutes searching every single spot before he could sand it off with acid. He then walked around a bit, found a car standing isolated around the corner and switched the plates with his car.

Ten minutes later – after buying a _Brötchen_ around the corner in a bakery – he was on the road already, driving down on the B47. It was late enough to not get caught in the holiday traffic, but the streets still were rather full. On his way down to Cologne, he stood once or twice, but never for too long, minutes only. He saw Bremen on his way, drove through it without seeing any sights or paying any attention to them; he drove by Muenster, Dortmund, finally reaching Cologne after four hours sitting in the car nonstop, not once pulling over to a parking lot to stretch or piss.

He left his car in a parking lot close to the central station. The cathedral visible above all houses, standing tall and proud as one of the most famous sights of Germany, in the back, the German flair of a big city muted by the excitement typical for Christmas Eve.

Just like in Cuxhaven, there was decoration up everywhere.

A bloody big Santa Claus figure stood in the middle of a market James approached. He still had four hours left until he’d have to be at his platform, enough time to wander around a bit. The scent of German lebkuchen lay in the air, together with something sugary James couldn’t name, and mulled wine. During the day, there didn’t seem to be much clientele; some stalls still were closed, others had open, selling food, sweets, alcoholic beverages and self-made decorations, such as reindeers made of wood, little angels painted with bright white, yellow and silver colours, red and green stars to put in front of the window.

There was even a booth selling owls only; one as big as James’ forearm covered in glitter and synthetic snow, a wooden, fluffy scarf wrapped around its neck.

James stopped in front of a crèche, but only because the couple walking in front of him had stopped moving. He had never understood the appeal of a crib, of re-acting the whole situation without any money or salary for the actors standing there in the cold, the Maria dressed in thin clothes, and the Joseph not being any better off. It seemed to be too cold for the donkey, and the cow seemed to be asleep, or resting. At least they didn’t put a real baby into the crib, just a life-sized doll with ridiculous, tiny eyes half-opened.

The stall next to the crèche sold _Zwetschgenmännle_ , which seemed to be something made of plums from the scent and look only, the one to its left sold carved Nutcrackers in all colours, all functional from the demonstrations the woman inside held, cracking nut after nut after nut, the jaws of the Nutcrackers opening and closing in a rhythm reminding James of the clicking of an empty gun.

He smelled candied, toasted almonds in the air, Christmas cookies, _Magenbrot,_ even some _bratwurst_ freshly made. On his way from stall to stall, he got some _Eierpunsch_ – if the owner of the stall didn’t lie to him, it was an egg-based alcoholic drink, but that didn’t matter to James as long as it was warm and kept his fingers from freezing off.

He bought a pair of hand-made gloves from an elderly woman with a gentle smile and listened to her talk, her surprise when she realised he spoke German fluidly, and when he told her he was born in Switzerland. She gave him a bottle of cider on his way and shook his hands enthusiastically, thanking him for his purchase.

Without wanting to admit it, James couldn’t help but realise that he enjoyed being here. There was something about the aura that was incredibly addicting, maybe it was the scent, the amount of people walking around with their eyes sparkling either from the alcohol or the amazement they felt, or it was the pure sense of being in another world, if only for an hour, or less.

As far as he knew, in the evening there’d be more people; Cologne had four million people visiting the markets, the ones at the cathedral, the _Altem Markt_ , the _Neumarkt_ and the _Rudolfsplatz_ being the biggest ones.

There thankfully wasn’t any snow. It only was abnormally cold and the sky was grey, the lights going along the roofs of the stalls giving most light even though it was only noon, and the cold was bearable with a glass of alcohol in one’s hands. The gloves James bought protected his fingers from freezing off, the hat he wore keeping his ears warm.

He spent an hour walking around, another hour sitting down on a booth and just watching everything around him. Before he knew it, it was time to leave already. Shouldering his bag again after he put the bottle into it, he made his way to the central station, seeing people run in and out of it in a steady rhythm. The area in front of it was full, with people surging out of it to hurry to the bus station, and others walking inside to get away from the cold while waiting for their train to arrive.

James had been here before, yet he felt that something had changed. The design was still the same, and even though there were new shops gathered around, it was something else, something invisible. He didn’t waste much time in thinking about it and just got inside, slowly going to the platform he had to be on. Surprisingly, the train was already there.

In his time spent in Germany for missions, he had the joy to wait for his train more often than he would have liked to. The German Railways had the ability to always be late when he needed them to be punctual; either because the train showed up twenty minutes after being scheduled, or there were complications on the way slowing them down abnormally. He had no idea how Germans depending on them every day could survive it. There were worse Railway systems all over the world, but from a modern, well-organised country like Germany, he had always expected something else.

The train he would be travelling in didn’t seem to be from the German Railways itself, Thalys written on its side in big letters.

Better let the people know they weren’t the DB, James figured as he pressed the button to open the door, and stepped inside.

He’d have to spend around twelve hours inside two different trains until he’d be in Toulouse-Matabiau in the early morning. There, he would take some time to walk around, maybe drink a wine, he didn’t know yet, until he’d travel to Gibraltar. M would be proud of him: For once he had managed to plan all of this on his own, and that with close to zero possibility of being tracked down.

He, after all, had watched Q secure connections and networks several times, had even asked questions at how he did what and if he could explain what he was doing. It had turned out to be an advantage when it came to renting tickets and searching for the best connections on a MI6 computer.

The seats in the comfort class were red and purple, or maybe it was pink, he couldn’t tell. They were comfortable enough to survive sitting on them for a few hours, just like everything was compared to walking. He put his bag on the empty seat he had reserved just to be alone, leant back and pulled his phone out.

Everything seemed to be alright, no one had spotted him yet.

Slowly, the seats in front of him him filled with people. It weren’t that many, considering most spent their time with their families, preferring to stay at home and not travel somewhere, but he could see a family of four sitting down. Their young daughter squirmed around impatiently. She held a big toy in her hand, one James had seen displayed at a stall on the Christmas market, an owl with a scarf wrapped around its neck.

He hoped she knew not to scream around or make noise on a train they’d all have to stay on for three hours if there wouldn’t be any obstacles on the rails. He hated travelling by train enough already, he didn’t need a headache added to that.

After twenty minutes, the engine suddenly roared, and the train started to move. A child a few seats in front of James began to cry, his mother trying to soothe him while the man next to her just continued looking out of the window. There was nothing interesting to see; at first, there only was the platform with a few people standing there, until they left the central station and were outside.

James leant back. Even though it was warm inside, he kept his gloves on, just like he didn’t take anything out of his bag but his phone. The window was right next to him, the door on his left, only the seat with his bag between. The glass wasn’t thick enough to be able to hold a person, and if it was, James still had his knife and could use the hilt to break through it.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to, but he was prepared for everything, as impossible as it seemed to be upon first inspection. His years working for MI6 had made him suspicious even in situation like these.

Especially in a situation involving a confined area, with two doors leading into the cabin he was in, and only the windows as a way out.

In three hours, they’d be in Paris North, where he’d have to get to Paris Austerlitz in forty-five minutes until they’d continue to Toulouse. He thought about sleeping a bit, but was too tense, and knew they’d drive through the night. Sleeping now wouldn’t do him any good anyway.

The woman in the seat in front of him took out a book to read, her seatmate closing her eyes and laying her head on the other’s shoulder to sleep. Another woman, seated alone, was on her phone the minute the train started and began to talk loudly to her husband about the weather in Cologne, how it was a shame most of the stall owners couldn’t speak English well enough.

_You’re in Germany,_ James wanted to say, _you can’t expect everyone to know English_.

He closed his eyes and crossed his arms in front of his chest, listening to the noises coming from all around him. The snoring, the breathing, the hushed conversations held, words barely louder than a breath released. Someone was kissing, or at least it sounded like they were. He heard the train move along the rails, heard the wind outside push against the window and, after a while, heard rain loud enough to make him wonder if the drops were trying to break through the glass and sweep inside.

The train ride was tedious. Once or twice he could hear the girl with her owl toy run around or talk loudly to her parents who desperately tried to keep her quiet, but to no avail. He found himself anything but annoyed, no, even a bit amused because her parents’ frustration was audible in their loud calls, their angry shouts of _Natalie_ louder than their daughter’s questions and playing.

He was glad that after three hours, he could get out of the train and saw them leave in the opposite direction he had to take. He hurried to go to the metro which would take him to Paris Austerlitz, knowing that he wouldn’t make it to his connecting train if he missed the metro. He pushed past people forming crowds in the middle of the street, saying _Excusez-mois_ every time he accidentally bumped into someone. Paris, as always, was incredibly full, people everywhere even though it was, by now, evening and they were supposed to be at home and celebrate.

James knew not everyone celebrated, but who would, willingly, spend hours in a stinking, overfilled train at Christmas if they didn’t have to? Practically, James didn’t have to on his own, wouldn’t it be for his inability to take a plane and the fact that he didn’t want to drive all the way with a car. He didn’t have any other way of getting around but that.

Carefully he jumped over a man lying on the ground, fast asleep, his snores loud enough to be heard by the passerby’s even with all the noise. Cars, cabs, people, music playing over speakers all over the station, and even inside the metro. James managed so steal a pair of earphones from a young teenager standing outside the train for a smoke, and put them on, glad for the music on his phone as it meant he didn’t have to listen to _Petit Papa Noël_ over and over again anymore.

He leant against the wall next to the door and put the buds in, wincing at the sound level of the music going directly into his ear. He looked down at his phone in mild irritation, resisted the urge to throw it against the next wall and just closed his eyes again. It’d take them a little while to reach Paris Austerlitz.

Soon enough, they reached the station and James got out, walking up quickly so he could get into his train. It was a night-express, meaning he could pull his seat back into a bed. He was the first one to get inside as no one else was here yet; understandable, given they had half an hour left before the train would start, a delay because of the snow, and most had gone back into the city to do a bit shopping, wander around the city – whatever civilians did in their free time.

It had been a while since James had last have a free day, and he still found it odd to not have a mission dictating his way around the country or world. The fact he was on his own this time felt odd.

He found his seat, directly to the left after getting into the cabin, put his bag onto the empty one next to the window, and then pulled it back into a bed.

He wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping with a lot of people around him usually, but travelling around this much was incredibly exhausting. On a mission, there was one destination, one target he had to find, and they tended to stay in one city or at least one country. It wasn’t a jet lag, but it was the closest he could get to exhaustion caused by going from country to country alone. Using a car meant he had to concentrate, but on a train ride lasting several hours...

James let out a yawn and shook his head, searching for one of the blankets they put underneath the seats when they travelled overnights. Because the wall was right behind him, he couldn’t make his backrest go down any further, but he had slept in less comfortable positions and situations, and still was alive. It hurt one’s back, but it was nothing more but a cramp, unpleasant, yes, but not deadly or permanent.

“ _Un coussin, monsieur?_ ” James cracked an eye open and looked up at the woman offering him a pillow, accepting it with a short nod. It wasn’t fluffy, nor soft, but it would be enough.

People came inside. There weren’t any children – thankfully – and the adults all seemed to be too tired to be loud. James kept the music on; it was calming, despise the loud beats, the rhythm matching the beating of his heart.

Even before the train started moving, he had fallen asleep.

Not because he was this tired, but because he had swallowed sleeping pills before downing the glass of water they had given to him. No alcohol, unfortunately, but this wasn’t a plane, it wasn’t first class, and alcohol didn’t do well together with drugs.

He woke up in the middle of the night. The train still was going steadily, moving along the rails and through the darkness. The light inside the cabin was off, only a phone a few seats ahead spending sight for the man holding it. He seemed to be reading, bent over something and a pair of glasses nearly slipping down his nose, and, it appeared, he and James were the only ones awake.

Snoring came from the seat in front of James, loud like a wood saw in the silence lying over them like a thick, fluffy blanket, muting everything coming from them and the noises outside. It was a shame that apparently, it didn’t block out the snoring.

Picking up his phone, James took a look at the clock and let out a sigh, rubbing his eyes and pinching his nose with his free hand. Only one hour more and they would be in Toulouse, and  then he had one day to spend before he’d move on. It was a strict schedule, but he had all tickets reserved, couldn’t waste any time staying on one place where MI6 could catch him easily. It was nearly impossible to escape, but he had to try, for his own sake, for his sanity, he couldn’t stay in London and wait for his death to come, not like this.

Would he return, he knew that he would walk death right into the arm, and even though he knew that, once he was caught, it wouldn’t be any different. But at least, he wouldn’t have died as a machine, a gun, but as a person. Broken, destroyed, only left in bloody shards, but he would have something other agents didn’t have anymore: A life.

They reached Toulouse-Matabiau at four forty-five in the morning. In the remaining hour James had busied himself catching up with politics; the internet was an useful invention, one he hadn’t been following closely the past few years since it had been invented, only when necessary for the job. But through one single, tiny device, he could read everything he needed to know, found out about a new terrorist attack in America, about political debates going on in Germany at the moment, a conference of the NATO arguing about the newest proposition of Hungary – something incredibly stupid, with MI6 involvement, he figured. He knew what country to avoid, thanks to them.

On his way outside the station, he stopped and pulled his map out to cross Hungary out. His plans had to be changed drastically, he’d have to cancel his tickets and the hotel reservation he made in Russia, but finding a new way through the countries wouldn’t be as hard as one might think. He couldn’t go through Russia like intended, but would have to choose the way over Turkey and Iraq. At least that meant he’d see India again.

Map back in his bag, he walked outside, stopping to take a look at the building he just walked out of. In contrast to the central station of Cologne, it looked older, had a more elegant look to it. James stood there for a few moments, thought about Skyfall, Alec’s old family house they discovered in the middle of Omsk, about the graveyard in Venice and about so much more, before he shook himself out of it and walked towards the nearest hotel.

The hotel was better than the one he had in Dublin, even though it cost the same. He grumbled something out when the receptionist wished him a Merry Christmas, before he gripped his key, turned around and then paused.

“Is hiking around here possible?” He asked in French, surprising her because they had spoken English before. When she failed to reply immediately, he nodded to her in goodbye and then took the elevator up to his room. He gave himself a few hours to check it for security, bugs, cameras, control the window and lock on the door, read through the news and listen to music before he was already downstairs again, having seen a café with computers the customers could use on his way here.

It was nearly empty, nothing unusual on Christmas Day. A few people were drinking coffee, only two women sharing one computer in the corner. James ordered a coffee, got his user code and sat on a computer right next to the door, where he had everyone in his line of view, even the street outside. Logging in quickly, he ignored his coffee and just began to research.

There was a hiking route going over 5.3 kilometres and it started in Toulouse. It had an ascent of 23 metres. James had doneworse. He sent the map to his phone just in case he decided he’d try it out, only to be remembered painfully that his leg still was injured as he sat up. A wave of pain ran up his foot, over his knee and up to his hip, like a shiver or shudder. Gritting his teeth, James reached down into his pocket and checked the money he had left in paper, deciding he had to buy some painkillers before he’d leave.

He doubted it’d be the last time he would be in a big city like this, but in some countries, it was more difficult, almost tedious, to get the strong ones he needed without a prescription. He could fake one easily, but only knew the format of the English, Scottish, French and Belgian prescriptions. It was possible they looked the same already, with Europe being so keen on getting the same standards everywhere, but he couldn’t take risks.

He almost missed H-branch. Stealing from them was so much easier.

The pharmacist looked at him queerly when he handed over the little container with the pills, but said nothing but Merry Christmas in a suffering voice. The last three years, James had have to work during Christmas, so while he understood his suffering, he found it exaggerated. Standing behind the counter was much better than being shot at in Canada. As if England wasn’t cold enough already, there was Canada, only one place behind Russia when it came to resembling a fridge. Working inside a heated, cosy and warm room where he just had to get drugs from the back and bring them to the front wasn’t that difficult.

“Merry Christmas,” James said, and – being the asshole he was – found himself giving a sharp grin. “Enjoy working.”

Limping outside, he didn’t even wait until he was around the corner before he had already opened the bottle, swallowing three pills at once without any water. He knew it was unhealthy, dangerous even, to take this many at once, but with the amount of bullets he took, it made little difference. It would only matter if he’d take ten pills at once and swallow them with shots.

Getting alcohol wasn’t a bad idea.

He found an open petrol station and went inside, letting the man behind the counter always see his hands as he gripped the first bottle of wine he could find. With how cheap it was, it couldn’t be good, fresh made wine from the region, but it’d be better than a cheap bottle of vodka which he could _smell._ He’d have to wait until it was afternoon to get what he wanted; most restaurants as expensive as those he was thinking about still were closed. And it was snowing. It had been a wonder the pharmacy had been open, but he figured it was an emergency one for cases like him.

The pills were wasted on him, but at least his leg stopped bothering him for a while; he could walk around without limping visibly, therefore didn’t attract any attention. Attention never was good. A good spy adapted well enough to hide in the crowd, not by drawing attention to himself. By walking through the city with a suit on, one caught the eye of the people, so James tended to only wear one when he was at a dinner or in a restaurant.

He walked past a river whose name he couldn’t remember and past trees with no more leaves, the green of the grass almost grey with the light of the streetlamp not getting remotely close. It was dark, cold, and the snow falling down onto the grass turned brown. Feeling the cold creep up through his soles and to his skin, he decided to turn around again and made his way down to the hotel.

Not feeling tired, he got on his phone again, keeping on catching up with everything he missed. The sun finally broke through the clouds again, filling his hotel room with warm, golden light, but not with the warmth he was longing for, and the moment it settled at the centre of the sky, he was outside again and found himself a nice restaurant with expensive wine on the menu. There was no price written next to it, indicating that, if you didn’t have enough money, it was better to go out again.

James had the money. He didn’t look like it at the moment – with his shirt dirty already, the jacket covered in spots of dirt and soaked in rain, with his hair too long and a bottle of pills in his pocket – and knew he didn’t; they all were wearing suits, all dressed in evening attire, and here he came in jeans and a dirty shirt with wet spots on it from the drying rain. The waiter eyed him suspiciously, but brought him to a free table, even one in a corner after James asked him quietly in French. Maybe they thought he was a veteran, maybe they thought he was a homeless man – he didn’t really care.

He ordered wine and meat to go along with it, handing over his card so they could check his account. The next time the waiter came back, he was much more pleasant. He brought the wine to James’ table and poured it into a glass, offering a free bottle for only half the price more. James accepted; the bottle of cider still was in his bag, but with the amount of travelling he wanted to do in the next time, he needed it.

Refusing to call it an addiction, James saw no reason to change anything, neither his intake, nor the beverage of his choice. Alec, despise telling him over and over again that it would end in his death, wasn’t any better.

He had his vodka, James had his martini and his whiskey, when he wasn’t in a restaurant trying to show off. Wine was acceptable; usually, he preferred the stronger, less sweet alcohol, but being in Toulouse, he practically had to at least enjoy a glass. If he couldn’t finish the bottle by the time he reached his final destination, he could give it to the agent sent to kill him as some kind of gift, or maybe a warning. Depending on who it was, it was already too late to change anything.

MI6 agents were like robots. They were given a title, their name was taken away, and the person they used to be died. James couldn’t remember how it had been before being recruited into MI6, before he became a Commander at the Royal Navy. He knew he had been sad, broken, but his time at MI6 hadn’t been any better, had only broken more shards out of his heart.

He downed his glass of wine, paid for his food and got up on his feet, not bothering to wait for his plate to arrive before he was outside.

This wasn’t him. The pretending, the snobs and suit-wearing men smiling over at their partners with those false smiles of theirs; the world of plastic, of tears and of misery, he didn’t want to part of it anymore. He didn’t want anything of this old James, of the weapon made by the old M, left. He wanted to tear it out, tear this old self right out of his chest and through his ribs, break his skin and cut it open until he could find himself again. He didn’t want a heart anymore. Didn’t want to keep on breathing, didn’t want to keep on suffering, didn’t want to _be_ who he was right now.

Going around the corner, James gripped the first passerby he could find and asked for the directions to the nearest tourist information centre. The woman, visibly terrified, pointed to one direction and then hurried off, making her way down the street quickly. James hoped she wouldn’t call the police.

He found the centre after a while and asked for help; he needed to re-schedule his train going to Gibraltar and needed help with that, claiming his French wasn’t good enough, and his Spanish not any better. It was only ten minutes later that he could go back to his hotel, get his bag and walk to the central station. The secretary had looked at him in confusion when he said he didn’t want to fly, but seemed to understand once James claimed he was afraid of flying.

It was as far away from the truth as a person could get. He loved flying. Loved the feeling of being above the air, miles and kilometres higher than the rest of the world. He loved the view he got from outside the window, even when it was just the clouds underneath and the sun shining down on them mercilessly, and even when he could see nothing more but water and a few single floating ice sheets on it.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t allowed to fly anymore; the risk it’d involve – he would be seen, his face recorded by camera, and it was possible that Q, as a kind of precaution, had given his face to several authorities all over the world with the plea to call MI6 immediately should he be seen. It was a race against time. He almost wished that he wouldn’t have to do this, but it was too late to back-out now.

She would want him to do this too, with her dreams, her colourful fantasy and her complains about James’ demanding job.

He didn’t even know why he did this to himself.

With the train, they’d go from Toulouse to Donostia, where he’d have to switch trains for one going through Madrid. They wouldn’t stay there for long – ten minutes maybe – before going down to Sevilla. He knew after sitting inside a train for so long, he needed to have his hands on a wheel again, be on his own, not with security risks everywhere.

In Alcalá de los Gazules, a town in the Cádiz Province, he’d walk, hike a bit. On the map, he could see that there was a park – the _Parque Natural Los Alcornocales_ – on the way down to Los Barrios.It would take nine hours to hike down there, but he found himself needing it. The fresh air could maybe banish the demons out of his brain, the physical effort even with a limp more tempting than hours wasted inside a bloody train cabin, waiting to arrive just to leave again.

The train to Donostia already was standing there. He only got a ticket in the second class as it had only been twenty minutes before the train left, and that only was possible because of the secretary who had pulled some strings for him. As it only was three hours, he didn’t mind. The man to his right had bad breath and unfortunately, didn’t seem to realise that. Talking loudly to his friend seated across the aisle, he seemed to ignore James’ presence next to him, and after five minutes, James knew that he must have eaten something with a lot of onions – something he hadn’t wanted to know.

James crossed his arms in front of his chest and leant to the side, his shoulder resting against the window. He’d survive three hours with that man and his obnoxiously loud friend.

Two and a half hours later, James wanted to strangle them both or push their heads straight through the window. He almost regretted insisting on being seated in the corner, right next to the window; there would have been a seat a few rows in front of him, the lady sitting next to the window fast asleep. She, at least, wouldn’t have been this loud.

Shuffling a bit in his seat, James sat upright again and took his phone out, fishing the earphones out of his bag, along with the bottle of wine he bought in Toulouse. With no glass anywhere close, he just pulled the cork out with his teeth and drank straight from the bottle, alarming his seatmate who stared openly. It was expensive, famous wine from Toulouse, and James drank it just like that.

The attention he drew on himself was almost worth it; the corners of his lips twitched up into a crescent as he saw there were six pairs of eyes resting on him, the lukewarm alcohol running down his throat tasting much sweeter than it was. He could feel it wetting the inside of his mouth, throat no longer dry, swallowing hard.

James gulped down another sip and then put the bottle down between his feet, right next to his bag. He still had the cider, but the longer he kept it in there and wouldn’t open it, the more to drink he’d have later once he reached the hut. Even though he had a few bottles delivered to it – and by today or tomorrow, they should already be there in the cupboard like ordered – it was never bad to have a stock.

The problems around Hungary and the NATO weren’t solved yet. By now, countries began to take sides; most stuck to the US and their rejection to the idea proposed, countries such as the Czech Republic and Poland acted interested and not generally opposed. James couldn’t understand all the fuss, but knew that it meant he might have to change his route again. Because of his current plans involving him going through Sofia and then down to Turkey, a conflict or discussion between the former Soviets and the rest of the NATO could mean trouble, and therefore obstacles in his way. He had at least nine and more counties in Europe highlighted on his map; it was bad enough he had to avoid going to Russia, because he couldn’t travel through Hungary anymore.

MI6 would be there, and the agents knew his face.

Once the train stopped in Donostia, he got out of it and made his way to the train which would take him to Sevilla, thankful for the nine hours it would take them to get there. The painkillers he was about to take would knock him out half an hour after taking them. He set his phone alert on ten pm, which was still twenty minutes before they were in Sevilla, and then put his earphones on, having learnt long ago that people didn’t bother talking to him when he had those on. Most tended to even when he was trying to fall asleep.

James swallowed his pills dry, but drank some wine right afterwards, even though the people passing him stared at him in disbelief. He pushed past a couple kissing in the middle of the way with a grumpy _Perdón_ and walked down the stairs quickly, seeing a man in a wheelchair waiting for the elevator to his platform. With small steps, James got up and limped towards the train standing there already, asking the conductor in Spanish where his cabin was while carefully stealing money from his wallet. He knew trains like these had dining cars somewhere in the middle, and that they served alcohol.

Sometimes, James was surprised by his intake on his own.

His seat was in the middle of the cabin, but next to a window. It wasn’t his preferred position in the train – too many dangers, not enough safety and protection nor shelter – but it had to do, and he was too tired, too drugged, to properly care. All he did was asking the woman walking around in case the passengers needed help if she could get him a glass of scotch or other alcohol three minutes past ten, and that she shouldn’t disturb him until then. With his head falling against the window and his bag resting on the empty seat next to him, he fell asleep, painkillers finally kicking in.

The alcohol he got was beer in a plastic cup, but it was the right thing to wake up. They were in Sevilla twenty minutes later than planned, but the car James rented by phone earlier today still was available and fully fuelled. In one hour, he’d be in Alcalá de los Gazules. It was close enough to Los Barrios to walk there.

He already knew it’d hurt, but somehow, he had to do this. He wanted to, no matter what, no matter how much pain he’d be in and how much he’d have to go through – he wanted to walk this distance, even if he could only do that tomorrow

This wasn’t how he ever imagined spending Christmas. Miles away from England, from Alec, from his childhood home and all he had ever taken granted and expected to remain the same. A life in Her Majesty’s Service was both structured in certain routines he went through over and over again, and a life of unexpected occurrences strung together in a pattern. What always, without an exception, remained the same was this deep, nostalgic feeling of sadness sitting deep inside his bones, the feeling of agony and emptiness, the longing and yearning for something missing in his life.

_Dor_.

James believed it was a Romanian term, but he couldn’t remember it. He had never wasted much thought to things like these, had been too busy trying not to get killed. Maybe it was from another language or maybe it was Romanian indeed, but what mattered was the fact that it fit so well it was a painful sting in his chest.

He didn’t even know what it was he was missing; he had lost so much, there was no way of telling what caused the current sense of grief rushing through him with the intensity of a knife pushed through ribs and into his heart.

The car and its owner were standing outside the train station when James left it, the woman shaking his hand and going over a quick explanation of what he needed to know about the BMV she bought only a year ago. Renting her car was nothing new to her. She did it all the time and gave it to strangers from all over the world without knowing anything about them.

The fact that James wouldn’t be able to take it back to her didn’t seem to bother her; the next customer lived five minutes away from Alcalá de los Gazules and would just take it from him. _He didn’t have to worry_ , she told him as she handed over the keys. Her smile reached her eyes, and James found himself believing her. It was nearly impossible to convincingly lie to him, especially as a civilian.

The car was alright. He found enough dirt to be convinced that she didn’t just buy it a year ago, but he’d only have it for an hour, and there were no guns, weapons, drugs or explosives hidden anywhere, so he would just ignore the crumbs and the empty bottles all over the seats and the floor. The engine roared loudly, a soft purr under his fingertips as he pulled it on the street. The owner already had his money, fifty euros, more if he’d get into a traffic jam.

One hand on the wheel, James put the bottle of wine back into his bag and set that on the backseat. Wouldn’t want to be accused of drinking while driving, not when he was in a hurry.

It was dark by the time he reached Alcalá de los Gazules, the moon hidden behind the clouds covering the whole sky in a dark, grey colour. He couldn’t even see the stars, the only source of light the streetlamp and the light shining through the windows of the train station James parked in front of.  The man who’d get the car after him would pick it up in the morning, so James had a few hours left to sleep, buy food and snacks for the way, maybe a bottle of water too. He didn’t want to be drunk on his way through the park.

James turned the engine off and then got out, glad to find a blanket, not an overly thick one, but enough to give the false sense of warmth and protection, in the trunk. He closed the doors and pulled the bottle of wine to the front again, his feet resting on the wheel as he drank a large sip, some wine running down the corners of his lips. He licked them clean and drank another gulp just because, eyes resting on the road he could see, the cars passing, the people on their way home from Christmas parties, maybe on their way to the ones starting only now, shortly before midnight. He wondered how many of those cars would make it home safely again, and how many would wake up in the morning hungover, or in the bed of a lover they weren’t supposed to have.

He wondered how many of the cars passing would be there tomorrow morning again, and drank half of the bottle before he closed his eyes and pulled the blanket over, sliding down some more to get comfortable. The brush of a hand against his, lying uncovered over the blanket and his chest, lulled him into sleep, a whisper into his ear, breath washing over his skin like a lover’s caress.

In the morning, he had already forgotten about that.

He stretched and yawned, giving a quiet curse when he saw the bottle had fallen over and there was wine all over his lap and shirt. He had planned on going to the supermarket and get some food, not to buy new clothes and waste more money – he had the money, it wasn’t really a problem, but the memories of how he _earned_ it made him feel disgusted.

Killing people was his profession. Putting bullets through a target’s head, not asking any questions, just taking his gun and using it like he had been ordered to – he had no problem with that. But to use the money for something he could have avoided was something different.

He had never wasted the money he earned. The only things he bought were a flat every time MI6 sold it again, suits when his old ones were destroyed, and a glass of martini during his missions; MI6 paid for the rest, even his food because it counted as budget wisely used and invested. H-branch called it making sure their bloody agents were in top form and didn’t forget to eat.

It would be better used for Q; the bloody boy ate all three days and counted a biscuit as nutritious.

Putting the, now almost empty, bottle into the bag again, James turned the key around, put his seatbelt on and turned the engine on, the roaring chasing away the last remains of sleepiness inside his brain. There wasn’t much traffic; he passed an accident at the side of the road, saw that help was already there, and just continued on his way, keeping his wristwatch in his line of view so he wouldn’t show up at the train station too late.

The first shop he found wasn’t open yet, but the second he tried was just opening its doors when he parked in front of them and went inside. He found a pair of jeans, too tight fitting, but as long as he could walk in them, he wasn’t bothered, a shirt, thick jacket and a thinner one underneath. He had probably given them too much money as he paid, because the shop assistant’s eyes went comically wide as he threw the money notes on the counter, gripped the bag they gave him for his old clothes and then hurried outside before they turned their shop cameras on. The red light had been off, the cameras unmoving. He could have robbed them and no one would have known.

His old clothes went into the first rubbish bin he found, given he had his new ones on already. Twenty minutes left. He turned around, asked a passerby for the directions to a supermarket and then walked there quickly, just stopping to take a trolley. The rotten food inside his bag was already out, the bottle of wine thrown away, and the cider lying on the backrest of the car. It felt much lighter than before, didn’t put any more weight on his shoulder than he would have been able to stand.

His body was a wreck, and it was just a matter of time until he’d be too sick and too broken to continue walking, but as long as he could, he would. Even if it meant being in pain – especially if it meant having to suffer to reach his goal. It was his decision, _his_ , not M’s, not MI6’s, his own.

And it felt damn good knowing that.

It must have been a curious sight; a man, unshaved, yet in clothes with the price tags hanging off each piece, going around a supermarket and throwing snack after snack, fruit after fruit and a few bottles of water into his cart, not even as much as pausing once or twice to take a look at the other choices. James didn’t care what was healthier and what would give him more energy. He needed food for his hiking trip, and that was all, he didn’t need to use weight, nor wanted to run a marathon.

A human can, in case no disease would shorten this number, survive 45 days without food. After losing 30 percent of their body weight, death was imminent. One could go seven days maximum without water.

But this wasn’t a mission where he had to use as little resources as possible, he wasn’t in the middle of a desert with no food nor water around and death directly behind him, he didn’t have to starve, nor die of dehydration.He threw three bottles of water into the trolley, then shoved it to the cashier. He came to a total of forty euros which he paid in cash, only to leave a minute later, a bag in his hand, the car still in front of the clothes shop. Putting the bags into the back, he drove back to the train station, pleased to see a man wait there for him. The earlier he could leave, the better.

Giving away the car was a process of a few minutes; James explained how it worked to him, took all his stuff out and that was it. He put the snacks and bottles into his bag until it threatened to explode from the pure mass he tried to put in it, then just shouldered it and rolled the plastic bag from the supermarket together as much as he could. It didn’t weight much, he could carry it in his hand and eat from that first.

Thanfully, it didn't snow. Hiking itself would turn out to be a problem already, especially if he ran out of painkillers too quickly - he didn't believe in taking a certain amount of pills a day, and not more - but if the snow melted and would turn the roads and paths into a muddy mess of dirt and water, James wouldn't make it far. He was stubborn, yes, but he wanted to make it on his own, without any help, even if he ended up stealing a car.

Four hours to the _Parque Natural Los Alcornocales_. He'd have to get through it and then continue his way, then catch his boat going to Africa in the late evening. It'd be night by the time they'd make it there, but he had a hotel room reserved, just had to move the date forward a bit, which was possible - it only took a bit of money to do that.

James had a lot to use until he'd be killed, and he hated wasting anything when he could have used it.

Even though it was winter, most trees were still green underneath the freshly fallen snow. It was a surprise to people not familiar with Spain and the weather conditions. James was used to the cold, but the temperatures still were mild, much more manageable than they were in summer; the north, where James had started, tended to get very cold just like the centre of Spain too, but regions like these were pleasant.

It meant James got too warm too quickly, but froze the moment he even thought about taking his jacket off. Part of him blamed the pills and his alcohol intake in comparison to the little food he ate; eating fruits and vegetabes was nearly impossible, and the snacks and energy bars he swallowed without much enthusiasm didn't bring him much energy - a bit ironic, considering their name. James didn't mind that much, but he had to stop more often than he would have liked, and was panting heavily by the time he reached the park, out of breath, exhausted, and on the verge of turning around and changing plans again.

There was a trail leading inside the park and through it, brown and white footsteps left from the people passing by before. James was overwhelmed by all the green; the trees next to him, their tree-trunks reaching up far above his head, branches held like thin arms of the dead, the leaves dancing in the wind. Apparently, it wasn't unusual for the area to stay green the whole year. Unless there was a very hard, very cold temperature, the trees stayed green, and even the water of the waterfalls stayed liquid. It was much more pleasant than being in Canada during this time of the year.

Had he mentioned Canada was like a fridge before?

He passed one of the high-praised waterfalls on his way through; it was a small one going down a set of rocks formed vaguely like steps, a weak stream divided in two in the middle of them. 

The water was clear, with only a few leaves swimming at the surface, and even less animals inside. It was too cold; he figured they were gone and had flown to the south, where it'd be warmer, maybe he'd see them in Africa once _he got_ there.

James passed the waterfall and paused at the lake, sinking down on the ground even though he knew it would leave a brown spot at his bottom, before he took out the bottle of pills he carried in the pocket of his jacket. Since he had bought them in France, he had managed to swallow most of them. The majority of painkillers didn't work on him anyway; he found their effects stopped working only an hour or two after he took them, especially light ones like those he held in his hand. MI6 had much stronger, less legal ones, in their stock, and he almost regretted not taking a few bottles with him on his last trip before dying.

Fishing two pills out, James swallowed them with a sip of water and shook his head, getting up slowly again. He knew the nature he was facing was beautiful, extraordinary and unique in its own, but all he could see were trees, and the water. There weren't any exotic animals or plants, no swan or bird keeping the depressing silence of his surroundings away. All he heard was his own heartbeat, and the rushing water, the splashing noise when it hit the surface of the lake. He didn't know how long he stood there, just looking at the water and trying to find the purpose of a park like this existing, but when he heard people behind him chatting loudly, he shook himself out of this trance he had been in, and then disappeared through the woods.

Being on a schedule meant he couldn't wander around like he wanted to, but he didn't mind; it got cold again, his leg felt like it wanted to fall off anytime soon, and he was too tired to continue staring at green in amazement. There wasn't anything interesting, anything phenomenal about the trees, the path he was walking down and the rocks he passed. It was nature, he had seen it before, and found it tiring more than he found it exciting

He left the park an hour and a half after leaving it, putting his bottle of water away so he wouldn't have to carry it. The bag he had from the supermarket, filled with sweets, snacks and an apple he had eaten an hour after leaving the city, was lying somewhere on the road, and despise the sense of guilt for leaving plastic to rot in nature, he didn't feel like going all the way back. He'd rather enjoy his time here, as long as it lasted.

 

There wasn't much he could do wrong when walking. He could let his mind wander, could plan ahead all his steps and watch nature pass, the birds, the cars in the distant by the road he tried to avoid. Not out of fear he'd be seen, but because he knew the temptation to call someone for help would be too strong.

His leg felt like it was killing him, but he still kept on moving, had lost so much already, lost it all, there wasn't much he could do but wandering around like a misfit, and running away from MI6, his personal Reapers.

The wind brushing past him seemed to share a story with him, voices flying through the air had anything good to share, whether it was just James' imagination, or something else. The wind couldn't talk. It couldn't tell any stories and it didn't sing about death.

James lifted his free hand to rub his eyes and let out a long breath, wishing he could just teleport or fly. It had been a bad idea to hike.

In a matter of three hours, he reached a lake called _Embalse de Charco Redondo_ and managed to name the capitals off all European countries in their alphabetical order. There wasn't anything else he could do but count the flowers on the way and watch the waves he could see, the lake lying there both abnormally calm, like dead, and with a power sparkling underneath its surface James couldn’t name, nor put a finger on. All he could tell was that the water was cold, yet not frozen yet, judging from the people getting out of it quickly, shaking and trembling from the cold.

James couldn’t help but smirk; there were enough people stupid enough to underestimate the temperature and winter, especially when in Spain and regions known to be hot in general. It had gotten colder, but had gotten late again, and the clouds had turned into an alarming shade of dark, black-ish grey. It would rain, or snow soon; he didn’t want to be on the road when it did.

Unfortunately, luck has never been on his side before. That fact hasn’t seemed to change much.

He found himself getting into the worst of the weather only an hour away from Los Barrios, the snow and wind strong enough to feel like there were knives thrown into his face. Jacket and hair, by now, he believed, the longest he had ever kept it, were dancing in the gusts of wind, being toyed and played with by an unknown force.

It was almost unbelievable how poetic the walking made him. He kept on thinking about monsters, demons, magic and spells whispered in the air, nothing but a breath into his ear, full of promises and threats, heard a monster lurking behind him and felt death’s grip on his shoulder. MI6 right behind him, guns out, ready to aim.

James gave a shudder and turned his head, regarding the trees and the distant road to his side. He didn’t understand the sentiment, the sentiment, the mystical and religious beliefs he found himself thinking about; there were no monsters hidden inside the snow, were no demons, but only the wind taking the snowflakes and twirling them around, no agent right behind him, gun already in their hand and the safety released. All there was was a path James was following, the trees, and snow.

Snow, snow everywhere. Bloody snow he couldn’t escape because he had decided to _walk_. Despise his limping, despise the pain he was in, regardless of the car he would have had, and could have rented for longer, with only a bit more money it would have taken him two hours, not ten and a night spent in the car with his back aching from the uncomfortable position he had been in. There was a serious disadvantage to travelling with a car which wasn’t his; there were certain tricks owners didn’t tell, and which he couldn’t find out by driving for an hour only. Maybe he could have pulled the seat back a bit; maybe the backrest could have been used as a bed, and maybe he could have pulled open the trunk so he could lie with his legs stretched out.

Pulling the hood of his jacket over his head, James released a long breath and clung to his bag, cursing the weather, the time of the year, and the fact that he couldn’t have died at least two months earlier. He was used to the cold, but not without the adrenaline, not without the voice inside his ear giving him instructions regardless of how cold it was, and how much he wanted to give up and go back to sleep. It’d be so easy; he could make his way to the road, force someone to stop their car and drive the way to Los Barrios, maybe even keep the car until he was in Morocco and could use it to drive through. It was a long enough way to Tunis, and he didn’t want to think about the boat he’d have to catch to reach Malta. Once there, at least, he could take a day or two of rest, until he’d continue his way to Sicily.

He almost wished he had taken the plane, even though it would have been risky to travel as far as Malta from Scotland, where, he was sure, MI6 was still looking for him. Without concrete evidence, they could only declare him dead after seven years; the old M would have done it before, especially as they believed he had died in the fire which consumed his house, all his possessing, all material goods he owned having burnt along the corpse of a man he had put in there before, DNA and teeth destroyed to the point they wouldn’t be recognisable, not even to MI6 scientists.

For the first time since he had disappeared, James wondered how his funeral had been. If Alec had been there, Q, Eve, maybe M, the other agents, if someone had cried, or if they, at least, had been sad about him being gone. He wondered about the empty coffin they lowered into earth, and what they wrote on his tombstone, the words they left behind carved into stone. Had they have any positive words for him? Was anything they had written true, or were it just empty words, a construct made to make people passing think he had been loved, cherished, and would be missed?

The questions he found himself asking managed to drag his mood down even more. He hadn’t deemed it possible, but as he saw the white houses and their red roofs above the trees and through the weaker-growing snow, he couldn’t make himself feel happiness, even though it meant he _finally_ didn’t have to walk anymore. From now on, he could take boats, cars, even busses, but no more walking, no more limping through the falling snow with a knee which felt like it wanted to make his life harder than it was already.

This wasn’t how he imagined his last journey, his own, personal mission to go. He missed England, as strange as it sounded to himself, because he had not wanted to stay there any longer, and now he craved the air, the scent, the massive crowds blocking all the streets, important entrances and the way in general, and he missed Alec, Q, Eve, MI6’s agents and minions more than he would have liked to admit.

Too late for guilt, for shame and sadness, too late to go back. It was done, and he had to make the best out of it.

He passed the hill with a dozen of houses in between of green, tiny, sometimes sparsely populated spots in between the abnormal amount of houses pressed together in tight space. Compared to the houses built at the beach, they made James think of the _favelas_ in Brazil, and the slums he had been in a few times already if a mission required it. There was nearly no place James had not been in before for work; he had gotten around quite a lot, first in his Navy time, then as an agent, before he became a double-oh. The only new thing about it was that he wasn’t here for work, but pleasure.

The word made him snort. _Pleasure._ There was nothing pleasurable about walking nine hours at once.

At least, he thought, approaching the first rubbish bin he could find to get rid of the leftovers and the fruits he hadn’t touched. He kept the wrapped-up snacks and put them back into the bag, before he found a convenience store and put some more inside. The ones underneath probably were crushed already, but living of crumbs was better than going days straight without food. He had gone through such an experience before, had lost a lot of muscle mass and fat before he had been found by the helicopter sent by MI6 again, and didn’t want to repeat it.

The memory alone made him want to eat as many snacks as he could before having to throw up.

After a few minutes of just aimlessly wandering around, and catching a thief trying to steal his wallet before the man succeeded, he found the group of three European men who had the same plan as James did, at least until they reached the port and would part ways. They had posted an advert online: Three men meeting up in Los Barrios to go to Algeciras by car were searching for a fourth one to keep the costs low. One of them was from Belgium, James found out after two seconds of hearing him speak French, the other was from Spain – Sevilla – and the third from Switzerland. James greeted him in German and then took his part of the rent out, five euros, ridiculously cheap compared to the prices of the ferry over to Morocco. One of them would go to Cueta, just like James, the other two would pay the price of 40 euros for a high speed ferry to Tangier.

James preferred to go to Cueta. Even though he didn’t have his own car, at least not yet, it was quieter than Tangier, and the petrol was cheap, because Cueta was a duty-free zone. People spoke Spanish there, at least the majority, making it easier to communicate. He didn’t know why his Belgian companion wanted to go there and not to Tangier like the other two, but he didn’t bother asking; the moment they left their rented car, he’d be out again.

He had run a background check on them, but he was suspicious, and didn’t want to end up killed or being a hostage. Without any problems, he could get rid of them and survive without a scratch, but it would draw attention on him, the kind of attention he didn’t need.

From Algeciras to Ceuta, Spanish Morocco, he’d have to take a ferry with a ride of just half an hour. It’d be over before it even began. The ferries left every hour, but cost more, which he didn’t mind; he’ll have to pay ninety euros for a single adult in economy class, travelling as a foot passenger. Enrique had proposed to take the car to Morocco and just pay more, but the others hadn’t agreed, and James had just kept silent.

After five minutes on the road, they had already given him the name _grumpy dog_. He understood the adjective, but not the nickname itself; grumpy, maybe, but he would call it being thoughtful and observant, and the dog comparison... he had no idea how they came up with that.

“So Dan,” Mark said to him after ten minutes, only six more until they’d reach their destination. “Why are you going to Morocco?”

They were speaking English; Enrique only spoke Spanish, Mark German and Italian, and the Belgian man whose name James had already forgotten again only spoke French – all of that plus English, barely going further than a few sentences and words for Enrique, but the Belgian man and Mark spoke it decently enough. James internally cringed sometimes, but there was worse, he thought, trying to remind himself of that over and over again every time one of them opened their mouths.

“I’m on a trip,” James – using one of his aliases, Dan, for them – replied, settling back into his seat. The car was tiny; Mark’s shoulder was nearly pressing against his own, and his knees bumped against the back of the driver’s seat every time the car moved to the side or over a bump. His fingers twitched, part of him wishing for his painkillers, even though that’d attract questions he didn’t want to answer. “I started in Ireland and am going through Morocco to Tunis to go back to Europe again.”

“Must have lot money,” the Belgian man commented from James’ right, head turned so he could regard the Brit with a curious expression. “Rich?”

James shook his head. “My wife died. She left me money and a letter. It was her dream to travel around, and she said that I’m not enjoying my life the way I should have been, so I’m travelling now.”

Mark whistled. “ _Mein Beileid_ ,” he said, before translating it for a very confused looking Enrique into English. “My... um. Sincere condolences. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” James said, then looked out of the window, seeing Algeciras in the distance already. They couldn’t have been further away than five minutes, four maybe, even less perhaps. James would be happy once they were out, as Mark pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. He had close to no cigarettes left on his own, but didn’t want to throw his money out just to buy a new pack. The less he had to use his credit card, the better, the less suspicious it was.

Alec knew his habits, probably even knew how often James smoked in a week. James didn’t want to risk anything.

“I’m going to Morocco because of my cousin,” Enrique said, sounding excited. “Marrying his girlfriend. Big event planned, and _alcohol_.”

“I’m on vacation,” Mark hummed, settling into his seat with a pained expression. The car could have been more comfortable, the seats less of a wooden bank and more of an actual relief to the back. “No interesting back story for me."

The Belgian man just sat there in silence, before he gave a shrug. “Same for me. I can’t stand the cold, I need heat.”

“We’re here,” Enrique finally said a few moments later and parked the car. It was impressive how quickly the three men managed to get their bags and cases from the trunk, and then disappear after having acted like best friends before. James trailed behind them to see if they were really going to their ferries, pleasantly content to see them disappear in the crowds.

They didn’t seem to be the only ones eager to leave. The ferry leaving to Tangier would only stay in the harbour for ten more minutes, and those who still had to purchase tickets had to hurry up, or be there an hour longer. The one to Ceuta, James knew, would only arrive in two minutes, and until then he'd have enough time to purchase a ticket. He couldn't imagine that the queue would be so long.

He managed to get in front of a family of six at the counter - they had let him get in front of him after finding out his ferry came in two minutes - and got his ticket just in time for the ferry to arrive. There was a rush of people getting on the boat, as if there was something for free or a discount they could get, so James waited for them to get on first before he joined them and made his way inside.

The ride was less relaxing than he would have expected.  He wasn't sure if they were actually going over the water, or over a bumpy road. The boat was shaking and jumping, making James wonder if they were going to die because of the captain playing with their lives.

No one else seemed concerned, so James hoped they would make it alive, and unharmed, which they did, but he made a mental note to never, ever, again use a ferry to get to Ceuta when he could use a sail ship or a plane. His back would never stop hurting again, and he'd have his spine nearly broken more than once already.

Ceuta looked beautiful. Even though it was winter, the water was clear, a deep, calming blue, the sky, black, with the stars visible above his head, with only a few clouds hanging next to the moon, unable to block it. He figured it was rather unusual, especially for this time of the year, that it didn't rain; the last time he had been here, he had found himself in the middle of a storm which wouldn't cease for hours straight. It maybe was sixteen celcius, but to him, it felt like heaven, simply because he wasn't freezing and didn't feel like dying the moment he set foot outside the ferry and made his way outside.

Passing a yacht on his way to the hotel he booked for the night - it was eleven pm, dark, and he was very tempted to go to sleep - he took his phone out and let out a pleased noise, because not only did he manage to leave the boat alive, and unharmed, but also because the hotel was only a few minutes of walking away, which he was grateful for - more hiking, and he'd feel like his legs were falling off.

He had climbed mountains higher than the highest skyscraper in Europe, had run miles through the desert, had made it from Africa to Europe through the ocean on his own, without a boat, without a ship, only his arms and muscles keeping him from drowning, but the idea of walking half an hour or more to a hotel to rest there seemed so abnormal it was absurd already. There were taxis everywhere, but the police kept them from driving just yet, not until they had all the passports controlled and names taken for security.

James showed his passport to a policeman and answered a few questions, the usual procedure, nothing interesting, nothing new or exciting, really, just the same answers he had memorised years ago, only a few changes here and there. Yes, he was here for vacation, not work, yes, he planned on leaving again once it was over, and no, he didn't bring anything to Africa which could pose a threat, not a gun, only a knife which he had to show them. It wasn't sharp enough to cut through skin and bones, they believed, and James let them because he didn't want to have to explain why his gun seemed harmless when it was anything but.

There were a few gadgets he had taken from MI6, a few Q-branch surely wouldn't miss. It was, after all, just a knife, and it couldn't even explode (unless James pressed a botton at the side, but that was another story).

Once they let him through and into the city, he crossed the road and hid in the crowd, letting his gaze wander from the people up to the houses - light brown or white colours, the roofs usually very flat, windows everywhere and beautiful, old and traditional buildings in between the modern ones, a few cars on the street, nothing unusual, a city like any other. Pulling the zipper of his jacket down, James turned to his right and - thankfully - could already spot the hotel from afar.

It was Boxing Day. It had been the whole day, naturally, but only after checking in and bringing his bag up to his room did he realise it, and then turned his head to look at the door thoughtfully. He had two hours, even less if he wanted the friendly woman from the front desk and the guard at the door to receive the gift, and not someone else.

He couldn't even remember the last time he had prepared a box for Boxing Day. They used to do it at home, used to pack a little box and wrap it in gift wrap for Kincaid and his wife, then James would bring it over to their little hut, even though it used to snow to the point he couldn't see further than one or two steps. He remembered Kincaid's expression when James brought them their gifts, knowing what was inside already - always a bottle of alcohol, wine, or scotch, James couldn't remember, boxes with sweets, chocolate and fruits, sometimes even a ring or a necklace for Kincaid's wife - but still being happy, sometimes daring to hug James, sometimes just squeezing his shoulder while his wife found herself close to tears, her eyes shining with warmth and love.

James remembered he had never known her name.

She died a few months before his parents did - cancer, or some other illness making the body weak and the mind even weaker over a long time span, which James believed was worse than just a week of suffering, just a shot and it was over - and Kincaid had never tried to grieve, didn't give himself the time, especially not after James' parents were gone and the boy alone.

He had never properly thanked him either, he remembered. Had always assumed that Kincaid was still getting paid, only to find out he wasn’t after he moved out and to the Navy.

Finding boxes at this time of the day wasn't easy, but there was a convenience store just around the corner, and suddenly every step he took didn't seem like a pain anymore. He even found chocolate, and gift wrapper in a store a bit further away, which had closed an hour ago, but James gave the owner some money and she happily let him. Everyone would probably have done the same given the fact James paid her a hundred euros just for opening, and twenty more for wrapping papers and a few more gifts. He didn't have the Moroccan currency yet, but it would be of little use, given he didn't intend to stay here for too long.

 One day, maybe, before he would be in Algeria, and from there, he would go to Tunisia. Soon, he would be in Italy, could go to Venice, and then leave Europe. The sooner he could go, the better. MI6 might not have been behind him yet, and they might not even consider him having faked his death yet, but he knew his boss, and he knew that Alec or Q would check into that. They knew him, knew his habits, knew how his mind worked and they knew, unlike all the others, what happened -

James shook his head, finished wrapping in the box and then carried it back to the hotel, limping already again but he thought it was worth it. He could, at least, do someone a favour, maybe even make them smile. It was unlikely he would see the same emotions he had seen in Kincaid's eyes, the emotions of his wife and their laughter when opening the boxes and seeing what they put together for them. James, his parents, sometimes even Kincaid himself when James came running with no idea what to draw for them.

As a child, he had always enjoyed drawing. It was calming, and allowed him to use parts of his brain he had not exerted in a while. He hadn't have the time to sit down and paint something, not to mention that drawing took too long, lately, and wasn’t as interested in it as he used to be, but the memories of sitting in front of the mansion and try to copy the structures in the stone it was built with filled him with a warmth he had thought impossible after –

He shook his head, knowing his mood would only drop would he deepen that thought, and turned, the box with the sweets, gifts and the money in a bag the shop owner had given him. It was, possibly, the first time he had spent this much money in a textile and craft store and, hopefully, would be the last, but he believed it was worth it, that he could make someone smile. Another thing which he did for a first time – care about strangers enough to waste money on them.

Something he had never managed before, not even because of all the fund-raisers, the ones with sad-looking, crying children sitting in front of burnt-down, destroyed houses, staring into the camera with those hopeful eyes of theirs, the puppy eyes people were supposed to be touched by. James had been to Africa a few times before; there was misery, there was war, dictators and regimes in need of being overthrown, but there was another side, a beautiful and blossoming country with its own Hollywood, Nollywood, and cities where people were just as wealthy and happy as they were in the first-world countries.

The single story, James knew, was more harmful than it made things easier, the one representation of Africa became the only, and only through travelling people could get rid of their stereotypes and prejudices. He had always enjoyed travelling the most about his profession, and maybe that was why the first thing he came up with was going from England to Thailand to be killed there.

The same receptionist still was there when James returned, even though it was only five minutes to midnight, and he imagined she had been working for hours straight before. There were harder jobs, for sure, but working with people and in customer service especially had to be exhausting; James grew annoyed of everyone after a few minutes already, couldn’t imagine trying to please them all the time while trying not to shoot himself.

He approached her with a blank, stoic expression and put the box onto the table, gesturing to the guard eying him nervously. “It’s boxing day,” he just said, and then pulled his bag back and stepped away. “This is for you. Even with me only staying here for the night.”

Before she could even open her mouth, James was gone already. He took the stairs – faster, he wouldn’t have to wait for the elevator to arrive, and could escape the receptionist and the guard until the morning where they would probably not be working anymore – and slipped into his room, preparing for the night.

Hours later, he wouldn’t remember what brought it up, but he found himself staring into the mirror for ten minutes, just standing there, meeting his own eyes and breathing in and out audibly through his nose. His thoughts, all wild, a mess of ideas and fragments of sentences, resembled a motorway; before he could grasp a thought and look deeper into it, it was gone already, rushing past his consciousness like a car going 200 km/h on the road, and he heard his blood rushing in his ears, his heart speeding up and his throat going dry.

He found his pills before he could even comprehend that he had moved. With shaking hands, he searched in his bag and pulled out a little container he had not thought he’d need, ripped the lid off and swallowed two pills dry, feeling them scratch and slowly slide down his throat, painfully slow, painful in general, because they stopped him from breathing and he nearly spit them out again. They tasted like acid.

Sinking down the wall, James buried his face in his hands, tried to ignore the whispers and the noises from around him, knowing they weren’t real and only there in his imagination, but also partly convinced that they _were_.

As he woke up in the morning, he had no memories of going to bed or getting out of his clothes, but he was naked, had a morning erection and felt dried tears on his cheeks. Angrily, he wiped them away and ran a hand through his hair, before he reached down, calloused, rough hands closing around his cock to tug aggressively, no sign of pleasure, not a single part of him enjoying it as he wanked and stroked himself until he came, disgusted by the mess on his hand and the mess he was himself, the mess on the bed sheets, and the come making its way through his fingers. He gave a noise he couldn’t name, nor put an emotion on, because the imagination and fantasy he had used to get off, even when being enraged and frustrated, were maybe more shocking than his fresh-discovered love for gifting things to strangers, and he found himself hating himself, his life, everything.

He got up and pulled the sheets off the bed, dragging them over to the laundry box to get rid of it, before he washed his hands, several times, over and over again, until his skin looked redder and he felt remotely clean again. Or as close as he could get.

Jumping into his clothes and packing his belongings again, he, quickly, left the hotel and went to search for a car dealership. The quicker he found a car, the better it’d be. Cities as big as this, as popular and frequently visited, were a risk; he could be seen by the wrong people, who could either use this information for themselves, or agents. It didn’t have to be British ones; it would already be enough for an American or Chinese agent to spot him, one announcement made by M, his picture in the database of the other agencies, and it’d be over. He wouldn’t even have reached Italy.

James had his car after five minutes of arguing with the dealer about the price; it was a faster one than the German car he bought to go to Cologne, therefore a bit more expensive, but he had the money, and intended to use it all. He wouldn’t need much in Thailand, the little hut he paid for months in advance so he could stay hidden and avoid having to pay rent. The money he already gave the owner – an elderly man who used to live there with his wife until she died, and now gave his hut to visitors and tourists looking for some isolation – were worth five months of payment. It was unlikely he was still going to be alive until then, but MI6 would search his current residence thoroughly before they would give it free again.

Business wouldn’t be good after people would find out someone had been killed in there.

Before driving more than twenty hours to Tunis, he planned on seeing Al-Hoceima again, having been there once for a mission going terribly wrong. He had, after being shot in the shoulder and nearly bleeding out at the beach, been rescued by a couple who let him use their spare room for sleep and his recovery for a few weeks before he contacted MI6 and let them take him back to England. His current situation made it impossible for him to meet them on his short stay there, but maybe he could check on them, owing them something, if only the money they gave him to make it to the airport, and what the food had been worth.

Maybe this was the solution to the big question, the _answer_ he had been looking for. The guilt pressing down on his shoulders strong enough to make him spend a massive amount of money just to see the places he had nearly died, the places he had been rescued even though he had already have one foot in afterlife.

Pushing said foot down on the gas pedal, James cut in front of another car, ignoring the honking behind him as he made his way outside the city towards his destination.

He didn’t go to Al-Hoceima. He didn’t stop in Algeria either, and avoided Sétif and Constantine on his way to Tunis, overwhelmed by a sudden sense of fear, panicked that maybe MI6 was already after him, and that they were getting closer and closer, breathing down his nape.

Instead of driving for twenty-five hours, he drove for twenty-three, and that without stopping for sleep, only for petrol. Tunis lay in front of him in the darkness, a bright, glowing stone in the middle of black, cold and dark monstrosities. It wasn’t terribly late, but too dark to see anything further away than a few steps, wouldn’t it be for the lights shining from the street lamps and the cars passing him. He had been here before, so didn’t waste any time; he drove to the port where he would leave for Malta, made himself comfortable and waited.

He didn’t care for the people passing him, throwing confused gazes and looks of suspicion into his direction as if he didn’t notice them. It wasn’t late, but late enough for the streets to nearly be empty, and the few people he saw all were couples and people coming back in evening attire, all traditional Tunisian, some tourists thrown in between, even a man with shorts despise it being, relatively, cold. It had seventeen degrees, which wasn’t much in comparison to the European weather, but it felt like ten degrees, even less depending on the wind and the air moisture.

James stretched; his back felt like he had managed to deform his spine, broken all bones or had been thrown off a moving train and down onto the rails. Driving for more than twenty hours might not have been a good idea, but he had needed it, the time alone, the focus on the road and nothing else and the isolation from every kind of human influence, be it cities, be it people themselves, be it the memories. The little time spent outside of the car – at the petrol station, and one time he stepped out at an empty road to piss and stretch – had been enough already, and now being on a ship felt like being thrown into an arena, left to hide from others again.

They tended to avoid him anyway. His hair had grown, and he had stubble, his electric razor lying somewhere in a hotel room back in Europe, no other way of getting rid of the blond, greying facial hair spreading and growing on his cheeks like he was a jungle, and they were the trees.

He booked his ticket early enough and already got it sent to him, so all he needed to do was wait for Imen. She was a Native Tunisian woman in need of a car, and James was willing to sell her his for the lowest price she would get. It was a good car, quick, new, and she had immediately agreed. James didn’t care who got his car; if he wouldn’t have sold it, it would have stood at the port for a few hours, remaining there until the police would see it and try to find the owner. As he had given the dealer a wrong name and ID, they wouldn’t be able to track it down to him, but the money he could get back from it could be used somewhere else. Imen seemed to be frustrated anyway, which James could understand; he knew how hard it was to get a car in short time, and with the little money she could use even more.

She showed up ten minutes before the ferry would arrive, one of the few still going to Malta over the way he wanted. He didn’t need to go to Sicily first – he wanted to go there right afterwards. He couldn’t see her hair, but she wasn’t wearing a sifsari like he expected, but a normal hijab, jeans and a long coat going down to her knees. She seemed to be freezing; he could see her tremble slightly as she approached, cautiously and hesitant at first, until James got out and gestured to the car with a light, faked, smirk.

“Here,” he said to her and held his hand out. “The price we discussed.”

“But this is a good car,” she said, eying it with a surprised expression. “It had to cost a lot more. I can’t possibly-“

“We agreed on a price and I told you that it’s definite.”

“Yes, but-“

James closed his fingers around the money she gave him, and took the hangover money to press it back into her hands. She tried to make him keep it, but he shook his head firmly and lifted the keys. “These are yours.”

Imen took the keys and her money, and then shook James’ hand, her grip strong, muscles flexing. He had noticed she was quite muscular before, but caught himself wondering what she was doing for a living, followed by a sense of alarm and tension as he realised that she could have been an agent. She seemed innocent, her joy and relief true, but he had seen good actors before, had fallen in love with one...

“ _Shokran jazeelan_!“ She said, letting go of his hand and going over to the car, her fingers running over the metal. “I have waited so long for a car, you have no idea. People always try to rip money off me.”

“ _Al’afw_ ,“ the agent replied carefully, stepping a bit away and eying the boat in the distance, getting closer and closer, its lights throwing negative shadows on the ground they were standing on. People were making their way towards the boarding area, dragging behind cases and bags, a few families, most alone. Trying to escape the cold, get some more warmth; he understood them perfectly. “I would explain how the car works to you, but I’m in a hurry. The manual is on the backseat.” He bowed his head, gave a short wave with his hand and then turned around, shouldering his bag even though his shoulder cracked, a feeling making him grunt quietly.

“ _Ma’a salama_ ,“ Imen shouted after him. He could see her leave only five minutes later, as he still was standing in the queue to the ship, the red car speeding away with a loud squeal coming from the wheels. She had figured out how the car worked quickly, or maybe was just familiar with cars such as this; she would only have to buy petrol, as the tank was nearly empty, but it was enough to make it to the nearest station.

James pulled his ticket out and showed it to the man controlling them, glad he had invested the money in an inboard bed in a room shared with just one other man instead of three, like the other rooms were constructed. There were only a handful of those, but the extra money was, in James’ opinion, well-invested. He knew what happened in the night when he began to dream, and he was slowly running out of pills to _not_.

Sometimes, it would be a blessing to be dead. No more dreams, no more days staring into the mirror and breaking down from an emotion he couldn’t understand, comprehend, no more pain, no more falling in love with someone and then seeing them die, like always before, just as Vesper had died, just as everything he touched was dragged away from him, died, faded away, and he ran out of metaphors for saying it was _fucking unfair._

James pushed past a little crowd of people gathering in the middle of the corridor, standing there chatting and babbling away happily. Always in his way, nothing but obstacles, annoying, frustrating, something he hated more than being shot at, especially when he wasn’t on a mission. At least there was no one blocking his way to his cabin, and his roommate wasn’t there either; he could chose a bed without any stress or discussion, could go to the bathroom and brush his teeth, wash his face and hair and shower before the other man even showed up.

James greeted him with a towel around his waist, hair still wet from the water.

His name was Jim, and he was travelling around for a report he was writing on cultural changes over the world and how different countries have influenced each other ever since borders were created. He was from Canada, he said, and didn’t mind taking the upper bed, not a problem, he was actually quite happy as he hated being the one having to get up all the time in case someone came knocking.

Nobody came, but then, James didn’t particularly listen.

There had been no reason for him to, but Jim hadn’t seemed to mind the distraction and James was glad to comfort himself the only way he knew, the only acceptable way he had –he couldn’t just shoot Jim or beat him up just for this need, this demand for violence, something physical he hadn’t have in so long, missed, craved, _longed_ for.

The morning after he fucked Jim into the mattress and made him scream loudly enough for the women in the room next to them to hit the wall connecting them, they parted ways already, neither mentioning anything, the mood cold, distant, nothing more but a quick Goodbye after a good, hard shag. James made his way up to the deck and stayed there the remaining hours it took them to reach Malta, Jim nowhere to be seen, no limping heard, only a wheelchair passing him once. He had found a nice, lonely spot for himself; he could stand there in his beloved isolation and watch the waves, wait for Malta to come and could make plans for his time on the island. There were a few sights he could go see, or maybe he would just stay at the beach; he was sure he would find something to entertain himself, if only for a day.

“So,” Jim said after stepping to the guard rail next to James, hands crossed in front of his chest. “I guess there’s a back story there. I’ve met a lot of people, but none ever fucked this hard before.”

“There’s none,” James said harshly and turned to leave again, deciding that if Jim was up here, he could go to the cabin. With all of the women and men he had sex with before, there had been no awkward mornings after; they usually died before there was a chance to, he didn’t see them again, was gone and in another country, or they were shot in bed already, either by James himself (apparently he had a thing for dangerous, deadly partners) or by someone who broke in. He wasn’t used to talking after having sex. The fact that Jim seemed to insist made James want to hide. “I like it rough. You weren’t complaining either. Excuse me.”

Jim’s hand came to close around James’ arm, but the agent was quicker, had better reflexes; he pushed him against the guard rail, put his hand against his throat and stepped closer, their chests pressed together.

“What the-“

“Listen,” James said, his voice barely more than a rumble. “I don’t want to do any talking. It was a one night stand, nothing more, and if there is one thing I can’t stand then it’s when someone talks when no one wants him to.”

“So there _is_ a back story,” Jim suddenly grinned, and James wanted to throw him overboard and jump on his own because he had been stupid enough to have sex with a reporter of all people, someone who had told James about how curious, ambitious he was. James wanted to shoot himself. “Was it a woman? There are some guys who like to have sex with a man every now and then, mostly those who think about dominating another guy, especially after a breakup.”

James growled. “First, I’m bi. Second, you can be glad I don’t have a gun with me,” he whispered, tightening his grip around Jim’s throat, “or this would be going into a different direction. Ask one more time, and I’m going to break your neck.”

He pushed him away and turned, glad that this evening, he would already be on Malta, and Jim – he knew – already on his way. He would be staying on Malta for exactly an hour; enough time to run into him again, but James would go to his hotel right away the moment they stopped in Valletta. Only three hours more, he thought, then he could disappear.

It felt like Jim was following him around everywhere. James saw him later when they could get some food, then leaving the room, a camera in his hand. It might have been paranoia, but James didn’t put his bag down anymore, carried it around and kept it close to his body as he slept just in case his initial opinion of the man had been wrong. He seemed like a man who had no spine, was easily intimidated and put down by others, even though he tried to make himself look more confident than he was. Acting was easy, and some people were born with the ability to change themselves into a complete different personality, could turn their back to someone and be someone else entirely, from their body language to their posture to their voice and their emotional reactions and responses.

James’ paranoia was ridiculous.

Jim was nothing but a reporter, and a barnacle.

Ten minutes before they reached Malta, James made the bed in his cabin, purposely ignoring Jim’s hateful looks and the way he kept on trying to take a look into James’ bag, probably expecting something personal, the picture of a woman, a wedding band, something to prove his theory. Apparently, he was a person who couldn’t accept no as an answer. It was incredibly frustrating.

Valletta port was beautiful, despise the weather. There was light rain, pleasantly warm, and wind blowing it right to him, underneath his hood and made the cold, as bearable as it was, creep through his clothes and into his bones, the taste of the ocean, water in the air as they finally left the boat and went through the boarding control, the city in the background, the ocean behind him. For a moment, he thought he had seen Jim, but that was close to impossible, given that it was unlikely he was heading to the cabs waiting for the tourists, like James was. The hotel wasn’t far away, but he could feel his leg bothering him again, the soft, yet palpable throbbing right underneath his knee and at his side. His quick steps became limping, until he could finally sink down on the backseat of a cab, and could give the man the address with a sigh.

Valletta had always reminded him of an Arabic city, had always have this special touch to its buildings and the streets. The cab took the long way to the hotel, but James expected that already, and didn’t mind; for once, he enjoyed the time he could spend by looking out of the window and counting the possible ways of escaping this car without hurting himself. Jumping out of it seemed the easiest way, but with the current traffic, it was likely someone would run him over.

They passed a street with a hill going down, looking like a gap, a canyon going down into an endless darkness one couldn’t expect. He looked up, and saw a house with several balconies on different storeys, all hidden behind yellow paint and walls, only little slits serving as windows. He saw houses going high, like they wanted to reach the sky, all with an old touch to them, no skyscrapers, nothing overly modern but the cars the cab passed on its way. The houses had flat roofs, all coloured in shades of yellow, light brown, a house they passed beige with a white balcony on every storey, a woman hanging a carpet out for ventilation. In the distance, there was a high building with a round roof, formed like a breast, enthroned far above the other houses and the churches James could see too. There were so many houses on one spot, all pressed together tightly like they did not want to waste any space, the Arabic flair enforced by this, the way the houses were built, the roofs and the atmosphere so palpable that he could lift his hand and wrap his fingers around it.

There was a reason he had always enjoyed being on Malta.

The cabbie finally let James get out of the cab once they were in front of the hotel, surprised by the amount James was paying, but staying silent, just keeping the extra cash for himself. He understood that cabbies didn’t earn much, and, even though it didn’t justify ripping money off tourists who didn’t know it better, James didn’t mind losing some money.

It was just paper.

Money. Cheap. Idiotic. He had always owned a lot of it, maybe too much, because he couldn’t value it anymore, but no one should, animals wouldn’t, people being right in their mind shouldn’t be either, _it was just paper_.

He found his room in a perfect condition, not a single hair on the sheets, the bathroom clean and the shower cabin big enough to get inside. Making himself comfortable on the bed, James sprawled out and smiled, face up to the ceiling and arms spread out next to him to his side. The mattress underneath him was hard, but he preferred that over the ones you could sink into; they tended to make him feel like someone had chewed on him and then spit him out after waking up.

There was no reason for him to smile, not one he could grasp and comprehend at least, but he, strangely, found himself in a good mood. He closed his eyes and sighed, slipping his shoes off and curling his toes into the blanket. It was warm, the heater on, the feelings washing over his skin and down his body until the tension leaked out of his muscles and into the mattress, like dirt being sucked in by vacuum, out of sight, out of mind.

Last time he had been on Malta, he had have a week of vacation before his mission began, and it led him to Sicily and then Greece right after two hours. Nothing bad ever happened on Malta. The island was incredibly calming and soothing, right after Russia his favourite place (Russia only because of Alec, the sentimental, Russian bastard), only warmer, tinier, less homophobic and less tense. People in Russia were keen on getting from one place to the other as quickly as possible, while in Malta, things usually were slower, less hectic. Most were here for vacation, not for business.

Valletta, even with the Graduation school being close to James’ hotel, was no exception.

“I wonder how you’re doing,” James said into the silence of his room, tempted to turn the TV on just to have some background noise. Silence made him paranoid, and made him feel more lonely than he could bear. Alone meant more security, meant protection and comfort, but it also was isolation, this dark, twisted feeling sitting deep in his gut reminding him that humans weren’t meant to be alone, as political and social beings intended to live together in groups.

Only the company of others and societies made humans human. Without them, alone in the wilderness, they remained animals – in Aristotle’s’ opinion.

James felt inclined to believe him.

“I’m sorry,” James heard himself saying, covering his face with one of his hands, breathing against his palm. “I would tell you I’m not dead, but they’d find me and drag me back. I can’t do this anymore. I haven’t lost this much weight since my last mission in Syria. I don’t know if you remember it. They caught me and tortured me, left me for two weeks inside a warehouse.”

He snorted. “I guess I can say I miss you. But it’s the only way, you see, or else you’d find me inside my flat one day. Suicide is the corward’s way out, but if there’s only one way left, what then?” He let his arm drop to his side again. “You’d probably hate it here.”

A few hours later, at one am, he still was lying there. He had stopped talking to himself a while ago, too busy regarding the news and the TV program running. If he saw one more naked woman brushing her fingers over her far too enormous breasts, he was going to strangle someone; it wasn’t appealing, nor handsome, he couldn’t understand why someone could get off it when there wasn’t even anything beneath the waist visible. James was no fan of porn – it was cheap, most of the time unrealistic and he found himself bothered by the image of women most portrayed, sometimes even the gay porn Alec had made him watch before.

The Russian was, from his own description, neither heterosexual nor homosexual, something in between, but the term bisexual didn’t appeal to him either, as he wasn’t just attracted to men and women, but anything between, those outside the spectrum and those who were a mix. The term was pansexual, James believed, but Alec was opposed to the idea of labelling himself, especially when it came to sexuality.

_Why should I_ , he would always say, _I don’t care, as long as the sex is good and there is a way we both can get pleasure out of it._

Q never talked about his sexuality and seemed embarrassed when James reported about the partners he had in bed, but from the blushes and the bantering, James had the feeling he was, at least, not completely against collecting experiences with men.

James pulled the covers down and sat up, peeling his trousers off and letting his shirt follow. He decided to sleep in his boxers, for once, maybe because of the heat underneath the blankets, the way they brushed over his skin and made him feel like a child hiding under the covers for protection, or maybe just because he didn’t want to repeat the incident of earlier, didn’t want to wake up with his cock resting against his belly, desperate, thick and throbbing in need.

James shuddered and pulled the covers over his head, his knife lying in his hand, ready to snap, attack, defend himself from an attacker and, if necessary, kill them without any mercy. It’d be a mess to get rid of all the blood and the corpse, but he could leave Valletta or switch hotels, his ID faked anyway, so it’d be hard to track him down.

Impossible, he liked to believe.

The first thing he did in the morning, after eating breakfast, was taking a cab to the Lascaris War Room, eighteen minutes drive turning into thirty, which he didn’t mind. He had a guided tour through it, even with his knowledge, and even though he could have held it on his own.

Ten euros seemed to be much to the rest of the tour, but James paid without any protest and just got inside. It began with a short movie about the topic, before a volunteer showed them around the rooms, stories about the usage and the people who worked here filling the walls with life, her words flying through the air to even the people trying to hide away on their phones, teenagers mostly, a child asking her mother how long it would take until they could leave again.

The film showed Malta during the Second World War, the history of the rooms and endless tunnels sucking James in immediately. He had never been interested in history, not when it was more than twenty years ago and couldn’t affect his work in the present time, but WWII was a topic still being an influence, especially in Germany and Britain, and he listened with interest, following the guide around for the time it took them to walk through the complete complex, always right underneath the Upper Barrakka Gardens he planned on seeing later.

The teenagers were gone before the tour was over, only one standing in the back rolling her eyes dramatically every time the volunteer opened her mouth to explain something, always on her phone, the tipping and tapping on the screen making James want to shove it down her throat or throw it on the ground to stomp down on it. The child had fallen asleep, carried by her father who had a suffering expression on his face, throwing concerned gazes on his child all two seconds. A Maltese woman kept on interrupting to ask questions in her Native tongue, a language James could understand it if it wasn’t spoken too quickly, which the woman did, slurring her words together,  too fast, too many words James didn’t know. It had to be something about Malta’s role in the war, because suddenly, the guide began to speak about secrets and corridors and the military, leaving the people around standing around awkwardly.

The guide was over more quickly than he would have liked; at least, he thought, it gave him more time to see and walk around the Upper Barrakka gardens, which he would enjoy seeing, because not only could he se the Grand Harbour, the old towns of Senglea and Vittoriosa, but also had a clear view over the shipyard and parts of the capital.

Thankfully, there weren’t many tourists. He didn’t know if the public garden wasn’t as famous as other parts of the city, or if it was simply too cold, but he was more than happy about the calm, the few people there – the less, the less likely it was he would feel too tense and panicked to enjoy himself. The sun didn’t shine as brightly as it would have in summer, but still James put on sunglasses, favouring the anonymity it brought him, the discretion it offered because no one could see the way his eyes moved to scan the area, not taking in the landscape and view yet, but first checking all exits and possible threats, seeing the statues and wondering how easy they could be removed and used as a weapon.

The canons he could see further down. He eyed them cautiously, mistrusting. One clever man who could work them, and they would be a weapon, therefore a threat, and therefore a security risk he could have avoided. He had seen pictures on the internet showing the canons being used for special occasions – they weren’t too old to be used.

Once he scanned the area for the first time, he turned his head again, and allowed himself to take in _everything_.

As he inhaled, he could taste the salty water, smelled the ocean and the boats passing, and the scents of the city further away, faint, weak, but they were there, and tickled in his nose. He saw the city in the distance, the ancient houses in different heights, saw the boats going over the water, their sails white and brighter than the greying sky. The wind played with his hair, which, by now, reached his throat, making the single wisps dance and rock along, nothing but a victim to its power. Even from where he was standing, right behind a canon by now, completely taken in by the view he had.

He didn’t even mind the couple pushing past him rudely. There was something beautifully unique about it, and he couldn’t understand what it was; the city wasn’t that special, reminded him of the Italian villages around the Lake Garda, or Greece houses at the coast, the water was the same water he had seen in England, the same he had driven over after going from Spain to Morocco, the same air, the taste of the ocean, the noises around him, all was the same and yet...

Compared to Newgrange, it was different, but the ruin had mesmerised him the same way, despise the different model, the different case, it was in. Same program, different case, perhaps. He hadn’t even noticed how much time passed while he stood there, hands in the pockets of his jacket, the coldness of the grass he was standing on slowly creeping up his soles and into his body, but he didn’t mind. It was cold and there was no use in denying that, but he had worse, far worse, and as the sun was shining down on him, he didn’t freeze. It would have been a shame; he wouldn’t have wanted to miss the view.

After ten minutes of standing there, James rocked back and forth on his heels and let out a long breath, his eyes fluttering closed, the cold wind brushing against his face, the noises around him wandering away until he was on his own, alone with his heartbeat, and the grass underneath his feet. Licking his dry lips, James inhaled deeply and then exhaled again after a few moments, just waiting enough to feel an aching in his chest, the longing for oxygen and urge to open his mouth.

He opened his eyes again and regarded the water for a few more moments, before he turned around, making space for a woman with her camera, not responding to her quiet “Thank you” as she seemed to be distracted immediately, camera up, finger on the trigger and face hidden behind it.

Would James be the person to take photos, he would have a whole album full of all kinds of places. China, Japan, North and South Korea, France, Italy, Russia, Bulgaria, the US, all countries and sights in Africa and Australia, New Zealand, the list was endless, and so would the pages inside be. It would have been a nice gift for Q, who has, if his words could be trusted, only been to Wales and Ireland, but never outside the UK. His fear of flying, he would always remind James when he taunted him with a smirk, was so bad it was actually noted down in his file with a comment from M, making it impossible for any possible successor to try and force Q to leave the country. He was an important asset and – unlike Alec or James – had never received any self-defence coaching.

Sometimes, James wondered if the old M ever thought about the danger her Quartermaster – the person who knew all passwords, all codes, weapons and agents better than M herself probably did – could pose, or anyone who managed to get their fingers on him.

Should Q be the one who would interrogate him, should M decide to interrogate him at all and not let him be shot at first sight, he would give him the advice to let Alec train him. He didn’t trust anyone else to do the job properly and calculate the lack of muscles and fat, and the massive brain hidden behind adorable curls and big, green eyes.

Shaking himself because of the cold, James turned and walked around a bit more, not having a destination, just wandering through the gardens without caring about the weather, nor the people, who came and left more quickly than James, twenty at least by the time he walked towards a statue, just curious what it was supposed to illustrate.

There were benches in front of every pillar, dark brown and black, and plants in big pots on the other. The walls around the statue were open to one side, the rest was surrounded by walls with holes in them – arcs, where the tourists could easily walk through, lights hung down in their insides so it wouldn’t get too dark in the night. There were cameras everywhere, so James kept his head low as he regarded the statue calmly, wondering what purpose there was behind yet another pillar and a round _thing_ placed on top of it. This was art?

The floor was much more interesting, but perhaps he was biased, and found more beauty in lines and symbols drawn on the tiles and stone than a simple pillar. There were other tourists there who seemed to disagree, because he spotted a few taking pictures and had to step aside to avoid being run into by a group of Asian-looking men and women holding their cameras up high.

The more crowded it became, the less happy James was about staying there, anxiety and panic boiling hot inside his chest. There were bulges in their pockets, maybe a gun, maybe a knife, he couldn’t know and that was the reason he turned and left.

Only to return a few hours later again, a writing pad and several pencils clutched under his arm. A sudden need had driven him here; all the people taking pictures, saving the memories and the view on their computers to proudly show off, they all had something to possess, something to hold onto and look at apart from their thoughts. They could share their experiences in a way James wouldn’t be capable of, not with all the words in the world or with gestures, no, only a picture, clear, beautiful and simple, could do the job. So James, in the naive, foolish hope that Alec would come and capture him, wanted to have something to show him.

Alec hadnever been on Malta before.

He had brought a little blanket to sit on with him and put the pencils down on it next to him, before he opened the writing pad and looked at the city lying in front of him, so tiny, so peaceful, so calm.

All drawing, regardless of what kind, began with the outline. That way, he didn’t have to worry about the details yet, and later had the chance to correct things. He drew the brick wall the cannons were positioned behind, the outline of the water and where the land began again, adding some lines for the different houses he saw, and the boats on the water. All in rough lines, not much pressure, light lines he could easily erase without leaving traces behind, those of the kind he would despise and consider as a flaw.

Once he drew the outlines, he went into detail. Drew the windows on the houses lying directly at the water, the tiny little, black squares he could see, tried to use shades and shadows to copy the different colours, all the white, brown and mixed colours of the city. He wrote the brands on the sails, drew reflections on the water’s surface, the sky, the green grass he saw just a few inches in front of him.

Drawing was easy, easier than he remembered. It had been a while, so the motions weren’t as smooth as they used to be, the lines sometimes too hard, sometimes too soft, a few lines completely wrong and the proportions not as good as he would have liked them to be – as he saw them right in front of his nose – but he didn’t plan on letting anyone but Alec, perhaps Q, see. If, of course, the occasion would arise.

With a few last corrections, James rolled the paper up and put it into his bag, before he checked his watch and decided it was time to move on.

It was one pm already, and he left in the early morning.

He could have gone everywhere; there were a lot of churches all over Valletta, several museums and remains of WWII and other historical buildings all over the island, and a lot gathered at Valletta specifically, but he found himself hungry, so he pulled his phone out and then gave the name of the first restaurant he found to the cabbie whose vehicle he slipped into before the elderly couple walking towards it could reach it.

James wasn’t in a hurry, but he would prefer not to wait in the cold, and there was cab right behind the one he had gone into.

Unfortunately, he had to get out of the cab again after fifteen minutes already, because the driver managed to hit a streetlamp. He scribbled down his mobile phone number to give a statement if necessary, put it into the cabbie’s hand and then walked off, heading towards a large, made of yellow-ish, beige walls, modern and right at the water.

He paused in front of it and crossed his arms in front of his chest for warmth, rocking back and forth on his heels, and making a mental note to buying new shoes, the soles of his current ones already half-torn, worn-out. The jacket kept him warm despise the wind and the smell of rain in the air, creeping through his skin and right into his bones, but he had worse before, and was too busy staring at the building to notice.

The road he was walking on went into two directions, but, as he didn’t know whether this was private property and therefore illegal to walk around, he stayed right where he was, and just regarded the building in interest, trying to figure out what it was.

He had never been in this part of Malta before. In a car certainly _,_ but not on his feet, and not when coming from the Upper Gardens. Sight-seeing, behaving like the typical tourist, those weren’t the things he tended to do, as he wanted to blend in and remain hidden from cameras, the majority of the people walking around, and from his targets especially, but how else could he spend his day here? He wouldn’t be happy when sitting in his hotel room all day, left alone except for himself, and his thoughts.

Perhaps it was a school. Or maybe a factory, and the working areas lay behind where James couldn’t see him. He was almost tempted to take his phone out, make a picture of the symbol – an emblem, showing a shield, one half white, the other red, a book in between them, and some flags at the upper side – and google, but he had been a spy until his death, and if he couldn’t figure it out, then he would wonder why he survived for so long.

Too long, a voice inside his head said, far too long. James had to agree.

Most agents didn’t reach the age of thirty-five. It was a statistic M used to quote when James asked for a mission, a way of trying to convince him of retiring. There were, approximately, only four double-oh’s in the whole history of MI6 who did, and who weren’t forced to, who didn’t die before they could. James had been, by a few years, the oldest agent there was, Alec right behind him with only a year difference. They had seen agents come and go more often than they saw them again inside the corridors, familiar faces disappearing, double-oh’s taken away from them, not replaced until an agent had shown that they were capable, and responsible enough not to abuse their license to kill.

There still was no double-oh-one, no double-oh-three, and there had never been a double-oh-eight again. It was incredibly sobering to stand there in front of a building which he believed to be a school, and see the young people pass, head inside to be educated, to study, to become Masters and Magistrates, even Doctors, to become the future of their island and countries.

James had never felt like this before, but suddenly, he felt old.

The Quartermaster he had always worked with since he had become an agent in the field had retired, was now living somewhere on a tiny, yet cosy private island he bought with the money he never used. Q, the current Q, the one with the ridiculous clothes and the soft curls, would outlive James by far and then retire on his own one day, would maybe buy a private island on his own, or stay in London so he could still work, only in the background, from the shadows.

“Oh brother,” James mumbled, his nails digging into his arm. “We’re getting old, aren’t we?”

He turned away from the building, pulled his phone out and walked, managing to find the next cab stop where he sat down in the backseat, gave the name of the restaurant he wanted to eat at, and then closed his eyes, listening to the car, the radio and the music playing, the cars outside passing them every now and then.

_Guze Bistro_ , James found out, was only seven minutes away from the University of Malta, the building he had been looking at, and it was rare to get a table without any reservations. At this time of the day, however, and this time of the year, the waitress who asked James for his name could show him an empty table and bring him the menu, all while smiling at him and speaking Maltese; James had spoken it to her first, figuring she was Native, and slowly reached the limit of his language skills, so once he ordered wine, he did it in English.

Once the waitress left, he looked around, menu in his hand, face hidden behind it. The Bistro looked traditional Maltese; walls made of stone, at some points already wearing thin, all in calming, warm colours, just like the other houses on the island. The tables were dark brown on the top and light brown, almost creamy, underneath, the legs in bright brown, the chairs dark and wooden. There were arcs leading from one part of the Bistro to the other, in the back a cabinet with wine bottles, more tables and a counter behind which a man stood and prepared drinks. Right above James, there was a mirror, and he was thankful it was up high enough for himself not to be visible, only the top of his hair, which he had to wash again, and that desperately. A good shower wouldn’t hurt, he thought, letting his gaze wander over a few other diners before he looked at the menu again.

After Mikela – the waitress - brought his wine, he ordered Red Prawns, Pesto Risotto with Wild Herbs, attempting a smile as Mikela said she would bring it as soon as possible. She was gone in a second again, leaving him alone. There were no people at the tables next to and around him, the part of the restaurant he was in nearly empty. He couldn’t imagine business went well in Winter, when most people went to the warmer parts of the world, the Caribbean islands or Mallorca, but the few people inside seemed to leave enough tips for the waitress to continue working. For a mission, James once had worked undercover as a waiter, and it was worse than being a double-oh.

People seemed to forget their manners when they were the guests somewhere.

His food was served with vegetables and potatoes, which seemed to be roasted in some kind of fat, tasty and easy to eat – he would go so far and say it was delicious.

The chef came out of the kitchen after a while, business running low, and went over to James’ table, chatting with him for a while, telling tales and stories about the dish and asking James where he was from, surprised to hear he was Scottish and still spoke Maltese, which lead them to a conversation about learning languages and the economic and social relationships between nearly all countries in the world, the NATO, the EU, and so on. By the time the chef left again, James had finished his food, three glasses of wine and had already paid, so all he had to do was get up and leave, a huge tip lying on the table for Mikela to collect.

He walked back to the cab stop and gave the cabbie, a woman this time, all he could see of her was her ginger hair and the colour on her nails, his next destination, eighteen minutes away from the Bistro, a bit more expensive therefore but he didn’t mind. He had more than enough money, had to spend it before he’d be shot.

Strait Street, or Strada Stretta, had history with military men, a history of drunken fights, whores and alcohol, but all that remained until now were old buildings and merely the signs in front of the bars left of the _gut_ of the city. He walked down the stairs and looked around, torn between being amused of the almost innocent-looking houses and structures he passed being the place where sailors arrived to drink and let themselves be relaxed in a special kind of way, and fascinated. It wasn’t hard to imagine how it used to be, not when he compared it to the Red Light Areas in the cities he had been in, be it Amsterdam or in Germany, Hamburg, even though the houses themselves didn’t suggest they used to be whorehouses, bars and clubs of the nineteenth century.

He walked through it twice, on his way away from the cab, and back to it, the calm and quiet around him incredibly relaxing. As he had nothing else planned for the day, he just settled back into the seat, told the cabbie to drive around for a while, and handed her several notes, much more than she deserved from driving alone. On her insistence that he didn’t have to pay so much, _please sir, take the money back, it’s too much_ , he just shook his head, told her to keep it and closed his eyes.

The city was nothing new to him. He had been here before, in this part of Malta, and had seen the streets, had even stood on top of the roofs and jumped, walked, across them, had probably seen more of it than the Natives had from the streets, but this time it was pleasure, not business, and he had no ideas what else to do. He had been in the _Bibliotheca_ , the National Library of Malta, before, or else he would have gone there now, had seen some churches, most sights already, no theatres or musicals playing, and he hated going into cinemas anyway.

There was, unfortunately, nothing for him to do, but he didn’t want to go earlier than intended, leaving him at loss of activities. Hiking – no, that wouldn’t go well, especially not with his injured leg, climbing neither, and swimming at this temperature would be more torture than fun.

“We’re at your hotel,” the cabbie said and turned around to him, probably checking if he was drunk or asleep. “Wanna go somewhere else?”

James shook his head and stretched a bit, getting outside. “No, thank you.” He gave her a short nod, then limped up to his hotel room, turning the TV on so he wouldn’t sit around in silence.

So far from home, it was no surprise he found himself feeling home sickness, a sour, bitter feeling rushing through his body, a darkness and sadness without a name, just the feeling of wanting to return. He knew that, logically, it couldn’t be the wish to return to England or Scotland, but to someone, a person he was far away from, too far, with no way of ever seeing them again unless he found a way of returning and that without being found by MI6. It was impossible, would be suicidal.

James looked outside the window as there was something knocking against the glass, surprised by the rain which started slow, but turned into a storm, the wind howling outside, a few branches hitting the glass before they were gone again, people outside running to search shelter and hide inside their houses. The few people who were too far away from their hotels and rooms disappeared inside shops and cafés, one right across the hotel, lying directly in James’ line of view. He stood up and ignored his protesting leg, making his way to the window so he could see the crowd standing inside the little coffee shop, hot beverages in their hands, happily chatting tourists and Natives together in one big group, all together, no one complaining or making rude regards, it seemed.

Only when a situation from their environment demanded it, they managed to work together and that with no one showing any signs of annoyance or unfriendliness.

Jacket still on, shoes on the floor in front of him, James turned around and walked outside, the shoes in his hands, but he made no move of putting them on anytime soon. Driven by something inside him, by an urge he felt in the depth of his brain, like someone called him from the other side of the world, he stepped outside into the rain and stood there in the middle of the street, knowing no car would come, the road here sparsely used by cars or public transport vehicles. The cab he took here was one of the few exceptions made by tourists, therefore expensive enough and lucrative for the drivers.

The rain was cold, yet bearable, better than the snow in Spain, and better than the rain in England. James lifted his head and let the rain fall down his face, run over his cheeks and drip down on his neck, a few drops slowly sliding down his skin. It soaked his clothes and trousers, the jeans not a barrier to them, the water going through his soles and to his feet until his socks were filled with water, everything cold and wet and he found himself shivering, but didn’t want to move outside, couldn’t, something keeping him here outside, with his face up to the sky. Eyes fluttering open, James stared up the grey clouds hanging above him, the few sunrays breaking through them to fall onto the ground.

He rolled his shoulders and lay his head to the side, hands slipping into his pockets. There, they wouldn’t be protected from the rain, but at least it was a bit warmer.

“Sir!” Someone to his right side, where the hotel was, shouted, sounding genuinely concerned. “It’s raining, sir! You’ll catch a cold if you don’t come inside.”

James didn’t bother opening his eyes, just ignored her and curled his toes inside his socks, stepping into his shoes after a while. It made no difference, but he didn’t trust the ground, nor the wounds on his feet. They had healed well in the last few days and weeks, but scars would remain, burnt soles never healing properly unless they were treated, which James didn’t do.

He had disappeared right after setting fire to the house, burning everything down, his clothes, his belongings, the corpse and everything that made him double-oh-seven. With the fire eating at his flesh, he had ran outside, wounds all over his chest, the scent of burnt flesh in the air and smoke making him cough. His limp came from that day too, had he run through the forest behind the house in the middle of the night and fallen over a tree trunk he hadn’t seen. Nothing was broken, not anymore, but it still hurt like a bitch and he was glad that it would be over soon.

It was almost insulting that no one had come and searched for him so far. He had worked together with the ones in charge for a while, and yet no one seemed to know him well enough. Or, he thought as he made his way down the street, rain soaking him through completely, they did and waited for him to come back again, like he always had, and always would have without her.

This time was the last time.

His hours in Malta were over soon, and it was raining all the time. He had walked around until it was late evening and time to sleep, so he wouldn’t miss his ferry to Sicily, then returned to his hotel, ruining the carpet in the entrance hall and shocking the receptionist behind the counter, a grin on his face as the young man looked like he was about to faint.

“Put it on my bill,” he just said, gestured to the carpet and then got into the elevator, waiting for it to take him up.

The ferry left in the early morning, but James was awake hours before already, sitting on a stone at the harbour to watch the ocean, waves brushing up his jeans. No shop was open yet, so he couldn’t replace his clothes and shoes yet, had to wait until Sicily or Italy, where he would stay for an hour or two in Venice.  Until then, he could survive in the, half-dried, clothes, had hung them on the heater in the night.

He almost didn’t want to leave. Malta was a beautiful island, one he had always considered as his only vacation, even when he had been busy chasing criminals and being shot at. As a civilian, he would have moved here, probably, and he would have dragged Alec along until the Russian would miss his home and cold.

Back to Europe, back to Vesper.

In a matter of one day, he had made his way through Sicily and had reached Genoa by boat; the owner had agreed on giving it to him and had enough money to get there on his own, so James didn’t have to return it again. Four hours driving with a car he stole, a plate he switched with another car and petrol he took from the canister the previous owner must have bought less than a day ago, the scent of petrol still fresh in the trunk, he reached Venice and headed straight to the one place he swore he would never visit, see, again.

He hadn’t been in Venice since Vesper died. He wasn’t in love with her anymore, had long ago managed to get rid of those emotions, but she was part of his past, was part of who James was, and he felt like he had to see it again.

So he drove all the way out. Found the place where he held her corpse in his hands and put a rose down, sitting there for an hour or two, just staring down at the flower and his hands, the emotions pushing against him, hitting him hard like a slap to the cheek. Once he stood up, sand on his arse, the cold weather feeling like ice, far worse than in Malta even though it didn’t even rain, he made his way back to his car.

The feeling that someone had been following him since he set foot into Venice grew stronger and stronger, but he couldn’t see anyone continue the same way he did, saw no one drive out of Venice and wasn’t stopped by the police or a car cutting right in front of him to block the road. The hope it was just his imagination, his paranoia finally catching up with him, was nearly overwhelming and distracting enough to calm him down, gone by the time he found himself a new car with enough petrol to make it to Slovenia.

He didn’t stop one time, not when he drove through Bulgaria, nor when he reached Turkey. He had been in those countries so often before, couldn’t know how the conflict between Hungary and the rest of the NATO affected the East of Europe, the former Soviets, countries whose loyalty tended to belong to Russia – in most cases at least.

The only times he let his car roll out and stop was when he had to fill it with petrol, when he had to eat, and when he had to pee. All those times, he stopped outside the big cities, where he had never been before and wouldn’t be expected. In Croatia, he didn’t stop in Zagreb, but Hrvatska Kostajnica, didn’t stop in Sofia but Elkhovo. Once he reached the border to Turkey, his worry came back with such a force that he forgot how to breathe for a long, nerve-wracking moment.

It turned out to be time consuming, but nothing too bad, especially since he had worse before, and coming to a country legally was easier than trying to sneak in. They checked his trunk, surprised to find nothing but the bag he brought with him, a few bottles of water and the canister with petrol, his knife safely hidden away somewhere they couldn’t find it, then had to show them his passport and paid for the visa, fifteen euros, and go through some more checkpoints before he was done.

Last time he had been in Turkey, he had been shot off a train, so seeing Istanbul again – even if it was just from the distance – made him grin and wince in phantom pain at his shoulder at the same time. Thankfully, he had protested when the travel agent had suggested taking the train from Istanbul to Yerevan.

He refused to take the train the whole time he was in Turkey, even though it would have been quicker, less stressful, and even though he could have slept for the first time in two days. He preferred to drive the eighteen hours through Adana down to Syria, where he switched cars again and tried to avoid the bigger cities, not out of fear of being caught by MI6, but the chaos and the fights going on there. Some agents had been sent down here before to protect England’s secrets from the militia and rebels, but he hadn’t been one of them; he would have enjoyed seeing Damascus again, but unfortunately, he had to avoid being seen by anyone and couldn’t know if there weren’t any agents down there who had seen his face before. MI6 wasn’t as anonymous as people claimed it was.

It was more like a city on its own, where everyone knew everyone, and rumours spread faster than the plague.

Thinking about it, it wasn’t the best metaphor he could have made, but it had been the first coming into his mind, and as no one would get to hear it but himself, it wasn’t an issue, not after a car cut in front of him and nearly made him slip off the road. James pressed down on the gas pedal hard and passed the car again, showing his middle finger to the man who glared at him in pure hatred. It didn’t bring his mood down, no, in fact it cheered him up and the hours passed more quickly, a bright grin on his face as he pulled over to a drive through and ordered food. He scared the woman behind the window with his toothy, shark-like smirk, but she gave him his bag anyway and let him drive off without calling the police.

The meat on his burger wasn’t made of pig, being in an Islamic country however had made him expect that, and it still managed to satisfy and make his hunger go away. He pulled over to the first parking lot he found, paid for five hours and then laid on the back seat, pulling the blanket he found in the trunk up to his chin to sleep. He still didn’t buy any new clothes, was too worried about being caught before he reached Thailand to stop in a city, as tiny as it might be, and go shopping. He knew he was, by now, stinking badly and that he needed to shower, needed to cut his hair and shave, but he was on his own, didn’t need to appeal and didn’t need to clean up, so the occasional wash in the filling station’s bathroom was all he got. At least he could wash his hair there and brush his teeth.

In Syria, he found a town almost completely untouched by the war going on in the country and managed to sneak into an empty house, the inhabitants out, it seemed. He showered there, stole a bit of soap and toothpaste, threw his clothes into the closest trash bin and found out the owner of the house had nearly fitting clothes he surely wouldn’t miss. Feeling a lot of cleaner and less of a hermit, more of a person, again, James continued his way down, driving seven hours down to Iraq, where he didn’t even stop when the car nearly ran out of petrol, too many bad memories, too much suffering he connected to the endless sand, the isolation, the country itself.

He had been here so often before, all the desserts looked the same, felt the same, all holding the same sense of fear and the scent of blood in their air.

In a little town, James found a new car and didn’t bother switching the plates, just gave the owner some money and his old car with the promise it was worth more than his old one – that was a lie.

The next petrol station would be in a bigger city, one James had been in before, where it was possible agents were stationed like James used to be before he became a double-oh.

Buying a visa every time he got into a new country was tiresome, but necessary, and the sense of danger lay in the air, just like the smell of blood. Tourists were discouraged when asking if there was a way to driving through the country, especially when alone, and in a car. James was the only one on the road for several hours, but didn’t mind, nor feared for his life. He had been kidnapped before, knew how to get out easily, and had a knife. Sometimes, the one carrying the gun was less protected than the one with a knife, and James had, by now, two, both hidden on his body.

Even if they would kidnap him, he had received training all his life, and they haven’t, in most cases. It would be easy to get away from them, take a few of them down at the same time. Dying was no threat to James; they could hold a gun to his temple and he wouldn’t give in, they could shoot him and he’d be thankful.

Dying at the hand of a stranger seemed more appealing than dying at Alec’s hand, was more appealing than being brought back to MI6 to be interrogated and then killed, as an example of what happened to agents betraying their country, their people, breaking their vow to protect her Majesty.

Fortunately  - or unfortunately – he made it through Iraq without any problems and reached Saudi Arabia, where he managed to drive the way to Dammam before his car gave up and stopped working, engine totally overheated and full of sand. The railway system in Saudi Arabia was nowhere as good as it was in London or in Europe, but it was enough to make it a bit further down South, just like James needed. The ride to Riyadh took five hours, and the seats were highly uncomfortable, the corridors filled with people who didn’t get a ticket but snuck inside, standing there with their fingers digging into the backrests of the seats so they wouldn’t fall down as the train moved. James had, as always, paid the extra money to get a seat right at the back of the cabin, and even though his seatmate was talking and complaining loudly on the phone, it allowed him to sleep, catch up with all the energy he had wasted in the past few days, always on the run, always hurrying. The painkillers he bought in France were empty and his leg throbbing in protest even though he didn’t put any pressure on it.

Right after they reached Riyadh, he bought a car in a car dealership, several canisters of petrol and made his way to the nearest station. Petrol was the cheapest in the world, and made driving here less expensive than elsewhere despise the high rate of accidents. A woman on the street where he worked on his car walked up to him with the request to drive him somewhere – she had money, just not someone who could take her there, and she couldn’t drive on her own, as women were kept from getting a license or purchasing a car on their own. He took her money, made her show him where the city was on the map, then drove her there.

It would be advantageous to have a local with him anyway. Accidents were anything but uncommon, and as a visitor the corrupt legal system would fuck with him. Most policemen didn’t speak English, and while James spoke Arabic, he only wanted to use it if necessary, trying to act like the dumb, clueless tourist they would believe he was until they would try to rip him off or blame him. The woman, who hadn’t given her name to James, but he didn’t need it, she seemed innocent, weak, and he didn’t have to worry about her trying to kill him, would be capable of helping.

Nothing happened, but James liked to plan ahead, especially in the country with one of the highest accident rates in the world. He could let her get out of the car, filled the car with the petrol he bought before, and then continued his way down, the heat of the sun shining down mercilessly, making him wish for the Maltese weather, the British, something more cool, less torturous.

He didn’t remember how long he had been on the road, but the moment he reached Ramlah and rent a room in a hotel in the late evening, he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep instantly, not waking up until the next morning, back and leg aching, hair covering his face and bones in his neck cracking softly as he stretched, a moan leaving his mouth.

He showered for a few hours, his head laid back, sighing in relief as the water made his tense muscles relax slowly, chasing away the cold which had followed him since the evening in Malta. Unable to cut his hair or shave because he had no scissors there and no shaving cream, he just dressed again, checked all the papers he had arranged weeks before coming here, and then made his way to the boats.

It was nearly impossible to get from Oman to India by ferry, but through a travel agent and with several weeks of planning, he had found a way easily. Money, as always, opened doors. He encountered some problems with the immigration police, but after finding a crew and captain who agreed on taking him with them to Mumbai, they were on his side too, just after two weeks of calling different agencies, agents themselves, the immigration customs and more, just for a place on a ship, and that even without a car.

The ship he was travelling with was already at the port, as they were ready, just had to wait for him to come or else they wouldn’t get their money. James had paid a bit in advance, just a little to keep them interested and willing, money equal with one thousand euros. If it would make it possible to go to India, where he’d have to leave Mumbai immediately again, he was willing to pay the price.

The captain greeted James like he was his best friend and even hugged him, ignoring his unruly, wild appearance, the beard he had grown by now, his neck-long hair, the way James nearly pushed him away again because of how close he got. The last person who hugged him...

Shaking his head as he stood in front of the tiny bed he was going to sleep in for the trip, he pushed his bag underneath the pillow and made himself comfortable, eyes falling closed after a few moments, the movements of the ship, the rhythm - up and down, up and down, a constant motion – lulling him into sleep, not even the voices outside his room waking him up again.

He woke up once they reached India, left the ship, filled all papers out and then made his way to the car dealership he could find, throwing out yet more money to buy a new car – by now, he owned five at least, if not more, all standing somewhere different across Europe, Africa and Asia. He hadn’t been in Mumbai in a while and would have liked to spend more time here, walk across the city, but the feeling MI6 was close, so close that they would catch him the moment they saw his face on camera or in person, so he had to hurry, keep his head down and put on sunglasses the moment he was inside the car and drove away.

It was a shame. He had always enjoyed eating Indian food, the people were nice, not as rushed and chaotic as they were in Europe, London the prime example for that. In Mumbai, he could go into a random bar, sit down on a stool and then talk to the locals and the bartender for hours, everyone friendly and open and willing to talk to strangers who they would never meet again.

He drove to Delhi and caught the train to Kolkata, a Rajdhani one, which were supposed to be the fastest, and even then it took them sixteen hours. Unfortunately, they had no 1A class in this train, but he bought a ticket for 2A – Two Tier Air Conditioned Class – and therefore had the same privacy he’d have in 1A. He shared the compartment with a couple on a trip around India and with a man travelling for business, so the couple shared a tier, and James and the man did. They were stacked vertically on either sides, bedding was provided, and there were privacy curtains the man immediately pulled over to allow them to ignore the couple immediately starting to make out the moment they climbed onto one bed together.

Fortunately, James had the upper bed. They drove through the night and half of the day, and, in the morning, were folded down and turned into a seat. James’ tier-mate didn’t seem to mind and just took his phone out, talking in rapid Indian to the person on the other side, from what James understood his business partner waiting for him in Kolkata.

Sixteen hours spent in a train full of people was horror. James felt like his limp got worse and like his spine had been ripped out of his back and put back in the wrong way once he left the train, Johar right behind him on the phone again, talking loudly enough for James to understand nearly everything he was saying. He found a car standing on the street and stole it right there, taking the risk of being caught if only it meant being on the road and his way again soon. The first opportunity he had, he switched the plates with another car when no one could see it and then continued driving, spending the three hours to Khulna half asleep and too tired to care about how many laws he broke, the police on his way not stopping him once.

Kolkata welcomed him with open arms, warm weather (compared to the other countries he has been in, at least) and an aura of friendliness and hectic on the markets, both living together in a relationship of dependence, as tourists were attracted by the exotic fruits, fabrics and things the people inside their stalls sold, but the reason they bought something were the friendly vendors, their small talk and tactics to distract their customers to the point they bought more than they had intended, going back to their hotels with two bags of fruits they didn’t even want.

James enjoyed being here. The smells here were more varied than they were back in London or in other countries of Europe, some sweet smells, strong and damp ones, the scent of sweet fruits lying in the air mixed with something spicy as James passed some people in his car, windows rolled down, an arm hanging out comfortably, only one hand on the wheel. He would like to stop t the market and buy something, but the road led him away, out of Kolkata and in the direction of Bangladesh, which he knew would just be as welcoming as the capital of West Bengal state.

Seven hours with the car, and a bit more time spent on a ferry sitting inside his car, watching the water around him and the people with wary eyes, he reached Dhaka in Bangladesh, and found a petrol station where he could also use the bathroom, wash and brush his teeth, burying his face in the water for a moment, eyes closed, bubbles of air leaving his mouth as he breathed out, got back up and took some tissues to dry off again.

The convenience store had no shaving cream, but he could buy something tiny to eat, just enough to sate, hunger so strong he felt like he needed to stop in a restaurant and get some food. Something big, meat, maybe even fruits, everything but snacks again which he had been living off the last few days.

He couldn’t even remember what day it was. He had never stayed in a town for long enough to catch a glimpse of a calendar, and his phone was empty, so he couldn’t look on it, and even though he could have gone to China and buy one, but that would have meant he had to take another route, and he wanted to get to Thailand as soon as possible. The hut he had bought would be a nice place to die. Cosy, isolated, somewhere too high up for tourists to pass him and demand to rest even though it was private property.

From Dhaka, after spending there two hours buying snack after snack from the convenience store and spending an hour sleeping inside the car, he drove down south to Sittwe, having to get out of his car and fix it – the engine overheated – twice before he finally reached the town and could let the car stand next to the road, bag shouldered, blanket under his arm. He didn’t plan on driving all the way to Mandalay where he’d take a train to Naypyitaw, instead would take the train there, then switch. It was easier, and he could also sleep for a little while.

A bed, like at home, felt like a dream, so distant, so far away and yet so close... He shook his head and leant back into the seat, rubbing his eyes and letting out a yawn he couldn’t suppress.

It was about bloody time he made it to Thailand and could sleep for as long as he wanted and MI6 wouldn’t show up yet.

The map he had bought somewhere on the road, couldn’t remember where, was too tired to, showed a way of twenty-nine hours and a road in the form of a crest. He wouldn’t mind driving for more than a day, but he knew the engine would suffer, and he didn’t want to stop in the middle of the country just to cool it out. His knife wasn’t as sharp as it was when he started, he had no gun, and would be an easy target despise his training, after days, months, with no training, no decent food and even less water. He smiled to himself, a bitter, sharp smile he was glad no one saw – they could think he was a serial killer.

After fifteen hours of driving, he reached Sittwe, where he had to wait for three hours for his train to come. He decided to spend the time jogging around, his leg aching with each step, knee throbbing and pain shooting up his spine, but he didn’t stop, just kept on walking through the city, buying himself a bowl with fruits and rice at a market he passed, the vendor talking to him for a while after realising James knew more than just the basics of his mother tongue.  James found his fascination amusing; far too many people came to a country not speaking the language, and then complaining about the Natives not speaking theirs.

James’ faith in humanity had been destroyed long ago, far before he had joined MI6, far before he enlisted in the Navy and long before he had turned eighteen. People showed a mask, the face they wanted others to see, when in public. At his parents’ funeral, all had showed their pity, their condolence, had hugged him and squeezed his shoulders, just to come to the house and try to take everything of value away a moment later.

He was glad all his ties to them were cut, that they had no way of finding him ever again. He had never liked his family.

Jogging for two hours turned out to be more exhausting than it had been before, was tiring, and he was sweating by the time the train arrived. He put his bag on the seat, then made his way to the toilet where he used the bit of water there was to wash a bit, ignoring the knocking against the door until he finished.

The man waiting in front of the door glared at James and pushed past him, nearly getting James’ foot stuck in the door. He limped back to his seat and sank down, a sigh of relief leaving his mouth as he finally could sit and take the pressure of his injury, his soles burning like they were on fire, leg hurting so much he wished for painkillers or a sharp knife to cut it off. He wouldn’t do it, knew he needed his leg, but still, the idea managed to get him relaxed enough to sit as comfortably as he could get on these seats, wetting his lips.

There were no curtains in front of the window, meaning he could see everything passing them, and also noticed how thin the glass was – it would be easy to break through it. Trains were, he knew, very slow and the fact that his seat wasn’t in a poor state of repair was a wonder, had he seen some seats in front of him, the material inside visible through little slashes and holes. He had a seat in Upper Class, but there were no beds, just the seats, as this train wasn’t meant to be an overnight one. After an hour of driving, a woman walked around offering snacks to those awake, which James wasn’t; his head against the glass, temple cold from the window, arms crossed in front of his chest and legs stretched as much as possible. The pain in his injured one was getting better now that he wasn’t putting any pressure on it, sleeping easy, soothing, taking away the tension.

He didn’t know how much time passed, but the train stopped suddenly, and an announcement was made that they had to stay here for an hour, and that was in Magway.

James quickly pulled his map out after stretching awake and took a look, giving a hum when he saw it was closer to his destination than Mandalay would be. From Magway to Naypyidaw, it were two hours, James’ seatmate told him, a local woman on her way to visit her family in Mandalay. Changing plans quickly, James left the train along a few others who were in a hurry, then went to search for a car. It took him longer than it would have in Europe, but he found a dealership close to a bank, where he could switch euros into the local currency easily. The car wasn’t any good and he didn’t know if it was an original or copy, couldn’t really care, he’d only have it until he reached Thailand, if it lasted this long.

The car dealer acted like he was making a good deal, even though James knew the car was worth much less. It didn’t matter to him however, so he just paid, got the keys and drove away, pulling his map out at the same time to check the route. He really needed sleep. The road seemed double for a few moments, blurry and a mess in front of his eyes, until he blinked and rubbed his face with his free hand, a groan of annoyance leaving his mouth.

Only a few more hours, he thought, then he could sleep. If MI6 would be merciful, they would shoot him while he was asleep, so he wouldn’t have to ever wake up again. Maybe Alec would be so gentle, or he’d use the time for ranting at the other and blame him for all what happened in the last days, maybe months, he didn’t really know how much time had passed since he last had seen the other. It had been a while.

James pulled the car to the side of the road, turned the engine off and slipped on the backseat, pulling his blanket up to his chin. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall asleep, an hour or two, he just wanted some rest...

xx  
xx  
  
The fifteen hours he spent on the road were over more quickly than ever, passed him in a rush of asphalt, tar, the whines coming from the wheels and the landscape he passed. He didn’t look at it too much, only saw some hills, the sun, not a single car going the same way he did until he came closer to Chiang Mai.

He had been here a few years ago, when the influence from the West hadn’t been this strong yet, when the streets were full of people instead of cars and cabs, when there had been markets and crowds standing together to talk, catch up on the latest news and gossips. It all had been replaced by hectic. By business men and women hurrying down the streets, big suitcases tucked under their arms, the markets gone.

James didn’t like the new Chiang Mai, and was thankful when he found a place to put his car down and made his way to the house of the owner of the hut, the old man living with his daughter in a house in the middle of the city, where one had a clear view on Doi Pui, the mountain the hut was on.

He used to live amongst the Thai people on the mountain, the tribes living there, but went down to his daughter once his health got worse and his lungs too weak for the thin air up there. James listened to him talk patiently, all while trying not to snap and tell him to shut up, just waiting to get his keys and the map before he could go and wander up to the hut. He’d have to hike; a car couldn’t get up this far where there were no roads, and he didn’t want to use a bike or go together with a group of people.

Right now, all he wanted was to be alone.

Thanking the man a few times for the keys, James bowed his head and then left the house, nodding towards the daughter who stood outside and talked on her phone.

It took him a while to find the way up to the mountain, but once he did, he shouldered his bag and carried the plastic bags filled with food and water he bought inside the city, the additional weight pulling his shoulder down on one side, therefore putting more pressure on his leg, which was hurting like a bitch after twenty-five minutes.

He hadn’t even reached the village of the mountain tribe here, which meant he’d have half of the way done. On his way hiking up, he passed a few people, most on their way down; a group of mountainbikers standing at the edge to a hill down, the city far underneath them, houses tiny like figures in a game, and smoke rising up to the clear, blue sky. The sun shone down on their heads, giving James a headache after ten more minutes as he had to rest, emptying the first water bottle in one large gulp, a shudder going through him as he massages his feet and his knee carefully, feeling the muscles shift under his fingers.

Around James, everything was green. The grass he was sitting on, the trees next and behind him, the ones further down building a forest towering above the city like a protection wall. Taking the rest of his water bottle and pouring it over his hair, James put it into his bag and stood up again, bones in his leg and his back cracking and protesting at the sudden motion. He winced and stretched, before he continued on his way, seeing the clouds get on the same level as him, until he was above him by a bit.

The village was empty except for a few people living there, sticking their heads out through the windows. James waved at a girl politely and shook his head when she giggled, walking more quickly after that if only to escape the, even tiny, signs of civilisation. He’d prefer it to be alone completely, hidden away inside his hut in the middle of the mountains where no one could find him without searching, and searching tended to attract the attention of the target if it wasn’t done well.

If they’d send Alec, he didn’t doubt that it would be done exceptionally well, but he knew Alec’s habits, knew his tricks, and anyone else showing up would make little sense. The only chance MI6 had in keeping him right where he was, cooperative and willing to listen to the words M delivered was Alec. Everyone else would be at risk of being shot, and James would make no exception when it came to that. Everyone was a foe until he could run a check on them, which he couldn’t when his phone had no battery.

The last thing he heard about Thailand before his phone stopped working were protest in the capital where people wanted to overthrow their government, which they believed to be corrupt, self-centred and out for their own benefits. It was the case for every government in the world, James believed, everyone holding a monopoly of power used it to get better on their own, to earn money, keep on bathing in their wealth and to take the money from their subjects, the people.

James kicked a stone away from in front of him and shifted his bag to the other shoulder, having to stop after a few moments so he could massage his leg again, the bag to his feet. Sweating again despise the colder weather, he shrugged his jacket off and wrapped it around his waist, tugging it close together so it wouldn’t slip off, before he continued on his way up the hiking path, no more people passing him, all alone, only the map keeping him from getting lost in the middle of the mountain and woods.

At one point, he stopped at the hill and stared down the mountain, taking deep breaths and wiping the sweat off his forehead, hating that he had to admit he was out of practise, muscles aching and shirt glued to his torso. He poured the content of another water bottle over his head to cool down, gulping the rest down in hasty, quick gulps, throwing the plastic to the side, feelings of guilt thankfully staying away from him.

It was just a hiking trip, yet it felt like the most tiresome experience he had had in the last months. Years maybe. There was no logical explanation for it; he wasn't on a mission, there was no adrenaline, no target to hunt, no injuries he had to treat and which could make him keep on going, just for his pride, for the country, MI6, hell, he didn't care, there was nothing left but himself and he hated that there was no one else, that he was alone in the world.

He had always believed himself to be a private person preferring to remain isolated and alone, yet now, that he was for once truly and completely alone, he found himself annoying it.

James opened his bag and threw out some rubbish, garbage, snacks he had bought days ago and forgotten at the bottom, crunched and melted. He tore them out of the wrappers and let the organic stuff, the food, snacks, nuts and chocolate, stay in the grass, knowing it wouldn't do any harm, the wrappers going back into the bag. One still was good, edible, so he chewed on it without any enthusiasm as he continued walking, step after step, trees, trees and _fucking_ trees next to him on his way.

The hut seemed midget from the distance, and didn't get much bigger as he got closer and closer, finally, eventually, making it to the entrance door which he kicked open, foot aching in protest, eyes roaming around the tiny inside before he left his bag on the floor, walked towards the bed and lay down on it. He didn't bother to pull the blanket up, just lay there, staring at the wooden floor to his side, the deal boards coloured in an unhealthy, yellowed brown, reminding him of mud and dirt after it rained in the middle of the forest. Usually, it held a certain kind of appeal, something womanly - _la terre femme_ \- and natural, the scent of fresh rain and the ground a harsh, yet pleasant contrast to the smog and the poisonous chemicals released into the air by the cars and factories in London, but right now, the colour made him feel sick.

He had been in nature for so long, he grew tired of it.

Eyes falling closed, James lay there for a few moments, just trying to relax, make the muscles in his body realise that it was time to stop, time to... _stop._ He had found the hut, had made himself comfortable on the bed, had food and water and papers to draw.

He was ready to die.

James didn't know how many hours he had been lying on the bed, motionless, eyes glued to the ground and the hideous boards on it, but the need to move made his muscles cramp and the wave of pain was enough to make him flinch awake, breath going fast as he sat up slowly and brushed a hand through his hair.

It felt like the night they had an argument. Three days before James went on his mission to the US where he met her, probably the reason why he had even tried to convince himself that it would work, that this time, he wouldn't be the one who was to blame for his lover's death. Maybe, even after the endless hours spent with her on the beach, his arms around her tiny frame, his chin resting on her hair, she had been nothing but a replacement. Her eyes had been familiar, her hair just as soft as his under James' fingers, her voice calling awake the memories of a past he had, apparently, thrown away with a few single ways muttered under the influence of drugs.

He always had some in his cabinet, hidden behind the medication against headaches and the pair of spare glasses he never took out unless needed. James had found them after spending a night with him, no attachments, no emotions, just a quick fuck to get rid of energy and the adrenaline of the last mission. There had never been any emotions involved in any relationships James had started after Vesper died, the reason a simple one: He didn't want the pain, the loss, the betrayal anymore.

He knew he was a fool. There always were emotions, and there had always been, ever since they first met, friendship at first, then something more, something more raw. In the last months, he had never really thought about it. Didn't want to, didn't need to. It was no wonder that the first time someone knew him for so long and didn't abuse him or his trust, didn't betray or hurt him, actually made it through the first layers of James' mental walls, he clung to them like a drowning man to a piece of wood swimming above the surface.

He wasn't surprised, nor did he particularly care; by the end of this week, maybe the next few, he would be a corpse already, so he didn't think pondering about his emotions and reactions was of any use, nor would it bring him any further.

Carefully, he pushed himself up and out of bed, stretching while bending down to press a nail back into the board, not wanting the agent who came to shoot him to fall over it. It wasn't mercy of some kind; he just didn't want them to fall onto him with all their weight.

Outside, a few feet away from the hut, he found an axe and some wood to chop down, wood he would use to make a fire in the nights, when it would get colder, and when the temperature would drop down enough to make James feel like he was sleeping inside a fridge. He carried the pieces inside and threw them into a corner, then pulled his own blanket out and put it on the bed for later, when he would actually to go sleep, for the first time in a while in a bed.  One he wouldn't have to leave a few hours after arriving again, one which was his, his only, and that until he'd die.

It was strange. It had been a while since he last had owned something on his own without MI6 giving it to him, all the beds they bought him not his, but theirs, the ones he bought sold to someone else because they thought he was dead. Normally, a person was declared dead after seven years; MI6 didn't seem to care about the ordinary ways of life. James was the living proof.

He sat down on the ground and pulled his blanket down, wrapping it around his shoulders. With no shower close by, he'd have to use his water to wash, and had only those clothes with him, every move he had made the last few days and weeks having led him to this. A hut rotten to the last corners, yellowed, stinking and tiny, dirty clothes, a beard and long hair. It wasn't the most graceful way to die, surely, but it would do the job. Valhalla wouldn't wait for him behind the white light.

Snorting, he took his lighter out and made a fire, visibly relieved when the fire washed over him, a gentle caress of warmth and comfort. For a moment, he could forget his misery, his pain, and could just sit there, imagine a glass of wine in his left hand, and in his right hand a good book. Shakespeare, or Poe; the last book he read had been Orwell's _1984_ , when he had been on a cruise spying on his target, a woman who sold weapons to the Russians illegally. He had finished it in seven days, would have been quicker if he wouldn't have been shot at two of those seven days, and the remaining five had not been any less tiring.

There was one last cigarette left in the package he found at the bottom of his bag, hidden underneath wrappers of snacks, cereal bars and jerky. He pulled it out and lifted his lighter, blowing the first cloud of smoke into the air, seeing it go up in a circle and hit the ceiling where it disappeared. James sighed. It was getting dark outside, the fire the only source of heat, and he would enjoy a bath, even a quick shower, would he be able to.

As it was, there was no shower close by, and the closest lake was further down. He didn't feel like walking again. There was enough wood in the corner to last for a few days, he had some food, could, if necessary, go into the woods and hunt, but that wouldn't happen; if there was one thing he knew for sure, then it was that MI6 was quicker than other secret agencies.

He knew almost every single agent capable of taking him down, and could already figure which one M would send, the one who knew him the best, could practically read his mind and react quickly to all of James' tactics, as he knew them, memorised by heart. Two souls in one body, two killers, friends, occasionally, even more.

James blew up smoke and stared into the flames, listening to its popping, the calming noises coming from the wood, a static sound reminding him of the sizzling sound of a pop, like popcorn, only a bit less aggressive, more calm.

Once he finished the cigarette, he lay down on the carpet, feeling the cold come up through the deal boards and brush against his skin, a shiver running down his spine as he curled up as much as he could, one arm wrapped around his knees, the other going up to pull the blanket over his head. It made it harder to breathe, but, at least, he would be able to save all the warmth his body released and not waste any.

Listening to the silence around him, the wilderness with no civilisation close by, nothing but trees, nature and the animals around, he fell asleep, his eyes falling closed slowly, tension leaking out of him.

xx  
xx 

One night, James woke up to the sound of someone coming in.

He didn't know what it was that woke him up, given that the intruder was abnormally, almost alarmingly silent. He had not made a noise while entering, had not even thrown a shadow over James' face, which would, normally, wake him up regardless of how hard the attacker tried to keep him asleep. It generally was easier to kill a target which couldn't fight back and was asleep, less noisy. 

Whoever was in here, he was a professional.

It didn't take much to count one and one together; it was easy to figure that it was someone from MI6, and James swallowed down the initial instinct to fight, jump on his feet and put the knife into the throat of the agent sent to kill him. Instead, he just opened his eyes and lifted his head, moonlight falling through the tiny window at the top of the cabin, the shadow standing in the middle of the door not even twitching, probably not seeing that James had woken up already.

It was silent.

All James could hear was his own breathing, the beating of his heart in his chest, a constant thumping behind his ribs, calm, _ready,_ and the nature around them, a bird, or some animal dying and giving a screech as it went. James knew he wouldn't scream or moan when they shot him; maybe he'd smile. He heard it creeped the enemy out.

Then, finally, after a few seconds of nothing but a big blackness swallowing all noises around them, the agent began to move. He stepped forward, barefooted to remain silent, possibly knowing that the deal boards would ache under his steps.  James listened. He didn't make a move, remained quiet and still, waiting for the perfect moment.

Going without any resistance was harder than he believed it'd be. His muscles were thrumming with energy; one move, one wrong move, and he would jump to his feet, tackle the agent and wrestle the gun out of his hands, he would put it to his head, press his finger on the trigger and-

James forced himself to stop. This is what he wanted. He had wanted to die, from the day he had left MI6 for good, finally free of his chains, now he would and that was all that mattered. He couldn't... couldn't just...

When there was a hand on his shoulder, he reacted by reflex.

He pushed the hand away and got up, his fist coming down to the throat of his attacker, trying to attack, but the man moved away quickly and kicked for his feet.

The months without any training and action had left him weak; in his current condition, he would pose no threat to anyone, especially not when fighting against a trained agent sent by MI6. They always, no matter how they estimate the danger coming from a target, sent one of the best. Even with an amateur messing things up, it only meant that the target could escape, the secrets could be revealed and the weapons could be sold. The consequences for failure, regardless of the importance of the mission itself, were too high.

Every move James made was done on instinct.

He couldn't rely on his legs. His knee was aching already. He tried to wrestle the other down and get to his knife, which was underneath the pillow, just close enough for him to get it and have a chance at using it, but it didn't work.

So he threw a punch and hit his attacker on the face, feeling bones break as his fist collided with the man's nose. In his fury and with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, he couldn't tell who it was. When he made a move, a response came immediately. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, just tried to land a punch, to make his opponent loose balance or consciousness, he wasn't picky. A foot shot up to his chest, kicking him backwards hard enough for James to nearly fall down. He stumbled backwards, grimacing when he could feel his leg give in; he used the momentum to reach out and pull on the agent's knee, feeling a strong, heavy body hit his back as he managed to make him fall over like a tree, all air knocked out of his lungs.

The agent now lay on top of James. He tried to reach for his knife, but was already twisted around, thrown over on his back by the man who rolled, gripping James' hips. It was an old trick; James wasn't quick enough to tear his hands off, was thrown on his back and groaned out in pain. Just as he was about to move again, there were hands pressing down on his chest, pressing him down.

He had slept shirtlessly again, even though it was cold, so he felt all the lines, all the wrinkles and scars on the palms of this man, and they all seemed familiar. If he wanted, he could have closed his eyes and traced them, and they would have been a map, he would have found his way around, because these hands, he knew them, had felt them on his skin before.

James lifted his head, eyes widening when he found himself staring into blue-green eyes, like a storm, wild and strong. Eyes James thought would look at him in disgust and fury, none of those emotions were visible in his friend's eyes; they were just there, and _Alec was there_ , here inside the hut.

Usually, James prided himself with the ability to always remain calm and controlled, no matter the situation he was in. The last time he lost it, lost his composure and said skill, he had Vesper's lifeless body in his arms and had shivered from the cold. Before he died, they shot _her_ ; he had expected it already, had just put bullets through the attackers' heads, and then had bought petrol to burn the house down. No tears, no emotions, just a big empy hole in his chest where his heart was supposed to be.

This time, however, lying there with Alec between his legs, he didn't stand a chance.

His lips were on Alec's before he knew what was happening, crushing against them messily, tongue sliding out immediately to lick over Alec's and ask for entrance. He had been desperate before, and it reminded him of the last time they had sex, when they argued for so long that they ended up going to bed just to let their frustration out on each other. In times like these, James was torn between a sense of guilt and the feeling of being a failure, usually accompanied by a strong arousal pulsating through his veins. Sex had long ago become a weapon, a tool, and he found it hard to find pleasure when he was just doing his job. Alec brought back emotions he had thought were gone, brought a fire James had never felt before.

James' cock was half-hard before he even noticed, and as Alec pressed his thigh against James' crotch, he gave an undignified noise at the back of his throat and pushed against the other, trying to switch positions.

It was a game to them. Neither of them preferred one position when it came to sex, but they found settling it at the beginning was too boring. Every time they started making out and then tried to find out who would be at the receiving end this day; no condoms needed, spit instead of lube, no problems, no attachments. Two best friends fucking.

Alec was a heavy weight on top of him, pressing down against James' clothed erection and making it nearly impossible for him to move. All James could do was lie there and let Alec lead, calloused hands going through the Russian's hair, gripping and pulling as if to assure himself that Alec was real, and this not a dream. It seemed to amuse the agent who just pushed his hands back and held them together above his head, a few seconds later he pulled away from the kiss, breathing hard.

His lips were swollen. Red. His pupils blown and eyes hungry, darker than they usually were. James had always thought Alec was an attractive man; there was nothing wrong with that thought, but when aroused, he had something animalistic, wild and emotional to him, something so uncontrolled that James was smitten by it. In contrast to the calculated, controlled movements of _femme fatales_ he fucked on missions, the women waiting for the right moment to put a bullet into his head, Alec let go and James did too.

It felt like they had just seen each other a day ago.

James had imagined this meeting to be awkward, loud, aggressive - he had expected Alec to shoot him at sight.

Alec's lips were on his again and finally James managed to get his arms free, immediately using this to his advantage. He reached up and tore Alec's shirt off, the jacket lying on the ground next to them, forgotten, right next to the pile of wood James collected days ago. Buttons flew everywhere, dropping down on the boards, and his hands found Alec's skin in an instance, brushing over his chest, his muscles, confused when he noticed that his friend had lost some weight. He had less palpable muscles.

When a hand snuck into his trousers and wrapped around James' cock, the thoughts about concern and worry were gone in an instance, and his hips bucked up, a growl leaving his mouth. He put his hands on Alec's arse and squeezed his buttocks, incredibly pleased when he could feel a bulge in Alec's trousers as they rocked against each other, James up into Alec's hand, Alec against his thigh. They were moving in silence, the only noises they made growls, words stuck in their throats and mouthed against each other's lips. James had never been able to read lips, but he knew, without _actually knowing_ what Alec wanted to say.

He understood. He didn't really care. All that mattered was that everything seemed to be alright, the argument forgotten, the desperation and the anger, the fury-

James pushed his hips up and grunted out, too happy about another person's hand jerking him off to care about how close he already was after a few minutes. It could have been more. Time passed in a rush, and one heartbeat was more than just a second, he couldn't tell, was too distracted to pay attention to anything around them. He managed to push Alec off him and pulled his trousers down, wincing when he felt his knee throb under his fingers.

Alec took over gently. He helped James out of his trousers and threw them to the side, then leant down, licking his way up James' cock, over his belly and his chest until he could suck on his neck. James wrapped an arm around him loosely, holding onto him as Alec sucked a bruise on his skin, grinding against each other, huffed breaths leaving James' mouth. He was so close, so close already, needed to come and then maybe they could talk, he didn't know, didn't quite believe this was happening. Alec had never been a man who enjoyed teasing his partners, so he took pity and straddled James' hips, looking down on him with a smirk.

Being this ruffled and ravished suited him. He undid his belt and threw it onto the pile of clothes they made, followed by his trousers and eventually his boxers, until he could just reach down, wrap his hand around both of their cocks and brush his hand up and down, _finally_ a moan breaking the silence they were in. James couldn't tell whether it came from his lips or Alec's, only that the noise sent a shiver down his spine, hips pushing up helplessly against Alec's arse, thrusting into his hand. The precome made things easier, but Alec still spit into his hand and slickened them up a bit. He stroked them slowly at first, taking his time, eyes trained on James to see his reactions and memorise them, but then he sped up, own hips moving according to the rhythm he settled.

James came first.

He moaned out loudly and closed his eyes, arching his back off the ground just to sink back down, his breath coming out as pants and his eyes fluttered open again, the ceiling above him almost too bright for his eyes. In this post-orgasmic haze, he didn't notice Alec following him, nor that he moved them, only when he found himself staring into those green eyes again, and into a face slightly wrinkled from how hard Alec was grinning. He didn't seem affected, but at his second glance, James saw the tiny drops of sweat leaving behind a trail on his temples.

"Hello," was the first thing Alec said to him since they last parted in insults and words thrown at each other's heads, and strangely, that was when James broke out laughing.

There were tears streaming down his face after seconds only, just because he was laughing so hard he couldn't hold back anymore. He laughed loudly and buried his face in Alec's neck, tangling their legs absently as he trembled, his laughter turning into hyperventilating, everything washing over him at once.

Around Alec, it was hard to remain calm. Composure was washed away like sand at the beach, control, posture and training all of no importance. He cried, or he laughed, he wasn't able to put a difference to it, and could only feel Alec's hands in his hair, the one covered in come resting on James' back. They never were men having a thing about cleanliness; when trapped on top of a mountain, there were more important things to worry about. They had pissed in front of each other. He had cleaned away Alec's vomit and had sitten on the same spot right afterwards. They had lived together in chaos, they had lived through times when clean water was a luxury, and they still were here, despise that all. James found being disgusted by come stupid.

"Hello," James finally said quietly and cleared his throat, wiping the tears off his cheeks. He couldn't even remember the last time he had cried - he always thought he had no tears left after all what happened to him. "Venice?"

Alec nodded and rubbed his back, trailing his fingers down his spine, every vertebra after the other, until he reached the small of his back. He let his hand rest there; warm, heavy, fingers spread into a fan. James let out a sigh, and Alec snorted. "I figured you came there to let me know you were alive. Should have figured I'd go there and wait."

"I hoped you still were too angry at me to come," James admitted and shuffled up so their heads were at the same level. "And I never told you where it happened."

"M did. It's in the file. They were all given to me after you were declared dead." Alec shrugged at James' surprised expression. "You have no family. They wanted to burn everything but Q helped me get M to hand them over. They're in my flat." He paused. "Well. They were. Should be burnt by now."

James frowned. Several thoughts, all going into the same direction, went through his mind; someone attacked Alec, but he couldn't see any wounds on his skin he hadn't seen before, someone tried to kill him, MI6 didn't want to leave the files where they could be abused, even though they gave them away on their own... His eyes roamed over what skin he could see of his best friend's body, but there was nothing, no traces of make-up or skin operations to hide the burn marks.

Alec smirked. "No one attacked me, calm down. I burnt it."

James stared and raised an eyebrow. He patiently waited for Alec to explain, elaborate - if there was one thing he wasn't fond of, then it was being left hanging with no way of finding the reason out on his own. Alec seemed to enjoy it; he waited, several agonising seconds passing, before he finally spoke again. The way he did, his intonation, his smile and the shining in his eyes made it seem like it was nothing out of the ordinary, but with every word, James grew more confused until it hit him hard, realisation knocking the wind out of his sails.

"See, when you died, you left a...," Alec searched for a word, drumming a melody on James' back absently, his nails scratching words into his skin. James wanted to concentrate on both kinds of words - the verbalised and the written ones  - but he was too tired, couldn't focused. So he just listened. "...hole in my life. It didn't make it any better that we had this argument before you left and died. I blamed myself. Drank a lot of alcohol, you know me, I hate coping with emotional situations like these, they make me sick, and shouted at Eve when she tried to pull me out of it. I went to the corpse they rescued from the flames, or what was left of it, and noticed something's wrong. I didn't know what. Bones are bones and yet I had the feeling they weren't yours. I knew that you would do that would you leave, so hey, I burnt my flat down, faked my death by jumping into the Thames and went to Venice. Nice place for a vacation-"

"Alec," James interrupted, shaking his head in disbelief. "You burnt down your flat just because you thought that I _might_ not be dead?"

Alec opened his mouth, then closed it again, tilting his head. He was silent for a few moments, then nodded. "I had the feeling, yes. I turned out to be right, so why are you so shocked?"

"You don't burn a flat down just because you have a feeling, Alec." James said slowly, doubting his friend's intelligence. Alec was a clever man, but sometimes too impulsive. That was what James secretly liked the most about him. He didn't care, didn't do the math, he just did it, regardless of what could happen. "What would you have done if I really were dead?"

The Russian shrugged nonchalantly and leant down to press a kiss on James' lips, licking over the tip of his nose to make James flinch. He just bit into Alec's chin in revenge. "I would have gone back, of course. They'd hunt me down and then I could go to Valhalla." He paused. "Or Hel."

"You just saw this new movie, didn't you."

"What else was I supposed to do? My best friend died, the one person who I cared about gone, and MI6 could suck my balls. It's time for retirement, isn't it? We're old. Worn out. There are dozen of agents waiting to take over our position and now that we two are gone, the times of shadows and brainless violence, sex with every gender and everything walking on two legs are over. We're living in glorious days, James. And we're relicts."

James smirked. "That coming out of your mouth makes me wonder what horrors you saw."

Alec's smile dropped. It felt like the mood had been changed from one second to the other, a switch turned off suddenly, one motion and the smell of sex and the happiness, a feeling James thought he had forgotten, were gone. He blinked and opened his mouth to apologise or do something to bring the light mood back, but Alec spoke before he could, eyes fixed on the wall.

" I saw my best friend's coffin sink down a hole in the earth and I saw that there were three people attending his funeral. One being his boss, the other being his secretary, the other me. None of the other double-oh's came. No other agent. I had to confirm my best friend's death and I had to agree on never talking about him again to anyone." Alec said quietly, turning his head to look at James with his mouth pressed into a firm, thin line. "I saw my best friend put a rose down on a dead woman's none-existant grave after telling him I might be in love with him."

James fell silent and still, drawing his arms away and shuffling backwards, regarding Alec with a wide eyes. He sat there, hands folded in his lap, and then leant in to wrap his arms around Alec again, pulling him close. During the time he planned all of this, the trip, had called the travel agencies, the ferry and boat owners, had booked his tickets and had paid the money for his hut, he had, of course, thought about the consequences it might have for Alec, but he would never have thought that it might affect him this strongly. He had not counted in their argument, had tried to forget about it, the words he threw at Alec's head like he was the reason for James' pain, everything he said leaving a scar on Alec's heart. He never thought that his words could hurt the other like this; he was strong, he was self-confident, always joyful, how could he...

How could he be affected like this?

"I didn't think you were serious," James admitted, kissing the top of Alec’s head. The Russian, giving a low sigh and burying his face in James‘ throat, bit into his skin gently, leaving behind the marks of teeth. James didn’t mind; at MI6, hikeys and lovebites had been forbidden, so no target could assume something, so no opponent could find out about the personal life of the agents. They weren’t at MI6 anymore, they were believed to be dead, James having burnt in the flames, Alec’s body washed away by the Thames with no way of being found again. They were gone. The old times were over, the future had begun and _finally,_ they were free.

“Have I ever lied to you?” Alec asked, trying to sound hurt but he wasn’t, a smirk on his face as he looked up at James with sparkling eyes. James found himself relaxing, now that the tension was gone. He never wanted to see Alec this upset again. “Okay, I may have. But the point is, I was serious back then. I have feelings for you. Why else would I give up everything just to find out whether you’re alive or not? We both can be glad I did, can’t we?” He fell silent, before he shuffled up, his hands cupping James’ cheeks, forcing him to look him in the eye. “Were you waiting for someone to come and kill him?”

James nodded, giving a shrug at Alec’s horrified expression. There had been nothing left for him. He thought he had fucked it all up, had brought shame to his country, his people, what he believed in, why should someone like he deserve to keep on living? How could someone like him be the person of interest for someone like Alec? People thought of them as two sides of the same coin; Alec’s mask his smiles, James’ his coldness.

Sun and moon.

“Brother,” Alec said, resting his forehead against James’ with a light smile. The older closed his eyes, felt Alec’s breath brush over his skin, a gentle caress leaving behind a warmth he couldn’t put a finger on, couldn’t comprehend. “There’s an endless road to discover and you act like the world has ended.” He shook his head and gave a loving grin. “Here's the plan: We'll be leaving this place tomorrow. You need to sleep. Maybe shower. But you definitely should keep the beard."

James raised a hand and brushed over his own jaw, shaking his head at the homour and teasing hidden in Alec's voice. He couldn't believe that an agent killing people for a living could be this childish, but Alec always had been different, one of the few agents who weren't British and didn't have an English ID. He was Russian, and proud of that.

"I'll get rid of it," James said and reached out to his knife, smacking Alec on the buttocks when the other laughed. "No, I'm serious. It's horrible."

"I quite like it."

"That doesn't mean I'm meant to have it." He pushed Alec away and stared at the knife, giving a grunt when he realised he had no shaving cream. There was no substitute he could use. Just as he was about to throw the knife away again and give up, Alec put his hand on his, took the knife from him and pushed James down to straddle his hips. Somehow he, magically, had found a tube of shaving cream, holding it in his free hand and giving the Scot a bright grin.

"Here. Let me do it for you. Just relax. Don't move."

There was no person James would trust more with a knife. Not a person who he would trust with his life lying in his hands. He lay his head back and offered his throat, hands coming to rest on Alec's hips as he leant down and bit into James' Adam's apple, fingers smearing the cream over  his cheeks. The cream was cold, swallowed by the mass of hair on James' cheeks, but Alec went to work anyway, his shirt,  which they had thrown to the side earlier, serving as a towel.

"I thought about going to Russia at first," he said quietly, letting the blade brush over James' cheek. The other didn't move, just sat there, breathing out through his nose. "But then remembered you hated the cold. You were born and raised in Scotland, mate, how did you survive it?" He shook his head. "So I tried to remember. You went to so many places and talked a lot about your missions and the cities you saw, and then I realised that the perfect place to live in is Canada."

"It'd cold there," James pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "We'd be spotted easily. MI6 would find us before we'd know."

Alec gave a pout, mumbling something about James being a spoilsport. "We both wouldn't be happy in America. South America is too hot for me. Greenland to cold for you." He finished one side of James' face, cleaned the knife with another shirt, probably James', and then continued. It was unfair that he couldn't talk; Alec babbled and babbled and made plans for their future without James having a word in it, and he - strangely - found himself quite relieved about it. He could relax, lie back and stare at the ceiling, trying to finally realise this was real.

"Any ideas, James?" Alec asked and grinned down at him, leading the knife to James' throat. He stopped breathing. Alec nudged his legs apart gently and slipped between them, pulling James up until he was sitting. "Where do you want to go?" 

The blade brushed up his throat, going over his chin and jaw. He could feel it as it moved over the most vulnerable part of his body, one wrong motion and there'd be blood streaming down his chest, soaking the fabric spread over his torso, he'd bled out before Alec could do something, no stitches close by, nothing they could use as a substitute. There would be no journey to Russia, no trip to Malta, no vacation in Canada where James would curse the weather, curse the snow and curse Alec and his stupid arse.

"The question is," James mumbled, curling his fingers around Alec's wrist, lips twitching up into a smile. "Where won't we go?"

Alec grinned and leant down to press his lips on James', his tongue sliding into his mouth. It was messy. Kisses were a mixture of spit, wet and disgusting noises and hands groping and touching. None of them seemed to want more at the moment, both just growing used to the other's body again. Eventually, Alec drew away, leant down and licked over the side of James' throat, tasting the sweat and the salt and the dirt. He hummed. "You need to wash."

"No shower here."

The Russian rolled his eyes. He pulled James up and made him sit on a chair, then fetched the remaining water bottles, not many, some half-empty, some only having a few sips left, but it'd be enough. Without a warning, he poured the content over James' head and ran his fingers through his wet hair. "There's soap in my bag."

"And where is your bag?" James asked, giving a grin when Alec looked confused, then worried, then relieved, the emotions rushing over his face in a matter of seconds. James waited patiently until Alec seemed to remember, shamelessly staring at his arse as he ran outside, then returned with a bottle of shampoo in his hand, the knife lying in the other.

"I don't have an electric razor we could use to cut your hair," he said, pouring shampoo on his palm, "but that can wait. I could use the knife."

He stood behind James again and massaged the soap into his hair and skull, fingernails scratching over his scalp lightly. Every now and then, when he felt James relax and close his eyes, he would lean down and bite into his ears or his nape, chuckles and laughter warming James' heart, his breath brushing over his skin and giving him goosebump. Intimacy was nothing new to them, yet to this extent, with the knowledge that Alec was in love, and that he, maybe, was too, it felt like a completely new and entirely different experience.

There was nothing James wanted more than spending his time with Alec, the last years they had, the months of hiding, the time they'd spend on the road and run, he needed it like he needed the air to breathe.

"Alec," he heard himself saying as the other pressed a kiss to his nape again, nuzzling the fine hair there. "Let's get back on the road." Behind him, Alec wrapped his arms around him, pulling him backwards until his chest was pressed to James' back, the aching in his knee gone, the pain, the feelings of loss and desperation and sadness replaced by warmth and heat.

James closed his eyes and thought that finally, after years of suffering, death's grip disappeared from his shoulder.


End file.
